THREE P.M.

This room of my disappearing act and valentine.

This chest that’s blown out and honey it’s really OK.

This record player.

This bed and all the times it’s been made and also drowning.

This sea and foam.

This time I have really gone and done it.

This time of buttons and pencils and surgical masks and seaweed.

This amphibian inner-organ green.

This smoke.

This pillowcase and razors and salt trying to be a human being.

This car alarm trying to be a human being.

This way of thinking and also climbing the stairs to who-knows-what.

This answer.

This couch and cutting board and carrots and lamplight.

This Mojave Desert.

This chrysalis branch that keeps breaking over my shoulders.

This kind of thing.

This going backwards so now I’m like a door in a house you knew.

This cellphone.

This two-way calling of the brain’s prayer, Amen.

This park at night and also yellow lights.

This scary.

This sound of someone on fire and also how the body is all water.

This epilepsy and also the ground opening up and the ground closing.