Love in the middle of the night.
I wonder about survival. I turn over—
curl up—face the wall. I imagine
the wall’s existence—its quality—
I don’t touch it. I turn over—
curl up—face my love. I imagine
love’s existence. My love’s existence.
Can I feel it?
Same day
at the California Culinary Academy
on the dessert crew—no one seems
to care about books. I will join the
YMCA.
Ozu.
Olson.
Palmer.
Spicer.
Whalen.
Intensive care.
Hot Chip.
Clash of the Titans.
Basic tales from a slate-gray summer.
This method of removal doesn’t work.
Back when there wasn’t any artifice.
