Pots and pans on the stove, in the sink. Shreds of paper on the floor. Stacks of mail precarious upon the table. Paint residue on my arm and between my fingers. Doors are locked. Lights off. And my car–with baked on remains of many suicidal bugs across the windshield– speeds off into the night again.
He views the worldfrom behind my eyes, reaching,wondering, calculating. As calculating as Icould ever be.I fade.I whisper, “See me!” I runthrough the stacks, lookingat piled volumes of the memories, knowledge that already belongsto me. He pursues me.I trot throughthe stacks, looking overmy shoulder.Wondering […]
I think god is inthe foyer, balancedagainst the staircasebehind me,his cellin his hands;texting prophets.Oblivious to me,he powersthe light that illuminateshis downcast gaze.If I could seehis eyesI might stay–if I could see myself,I mightgo.