and then melt. The tundra in my
closet is not hot. It is not cold.
As weather goes. I lie
in bed waking up. Lying in bed,
I am becoming awake. Awakening,
my thoughts lie
with you. I eat the smashburger
until I am all clogged up. I don’t
mind lying
awake listening to my stomach
as the minutes grow more and
more tense. In light
of Wednesday’s trip to the emerge
ncy room, I exhaust myself
working on ways (while lying
prone, from the Latin pronus,
‘meaning bent forward’) to force
time backwards, which happens,
ironically, in the vomitory of
the university’s most
prestigious named theatre.
The donor, for whom this
hospital is named,
was known
famously for her
liver spots, which,
in truth,
were painted on daily,
precariously, by ex
pensive designer make-up.
