Atrophied
Paperwork
I’m feeling kind of wasted
life. Somebody figure out
how to bomb shelters yet?
My hiding places. But I have
no cents for doing anything,
like last night, drinking it’s
the end of the world, and
it probably was. For eleven
years, a clicking noise,
many mornings, out my
(hauteur) bedroom win-
dow, just on the other
side of the screen. I
have yet to determine
or decide upon the sores
of it / the sort of it / the
sour-source of it, this
intermittent clicking
outside our bedroom
window. Have I ever
even attempted to
do so? I—
wounded—
wonder.
