SIX P.M.

This planet that’s in outer space.

This way I am with strangers and silverware.

This exact time and trees.

This looking past your right ear and at the ocean.

This piece of limestone.

This grave I made out of dinner and a bottle of wine.

This bell ringing.

This hammer the size of my closet with me inside it.

This letter I wrote to you with the packet of honey inside it.

This razor with my family history inside it.

This room right now and how it’s outside of everything.

This tired.

This talking and talking and wind and grass and midnight.

This ambulance in my hands.

This is how happy I am with you.

This thumb and mouth and ribbon and ice and asshole.

This Sunday.

This body like any other prescription-filled blue pill.

This weekend.

This ghost in your room pretending to be your older brother.

This pair of running shoes.

This afternoon.

This car that I’m driving made out of blood and guts and coupons.

This place like any other place.