Not counting the subway pass that fell through the gutter.
And the table that I tried to carry by myself. I’m okay. Afraid
at night. And flies keep dying on my floor.
The newness of the room is dizzy, desirable in the way that paint slides
off, how walls break like blue notes in the morning. The room expands
while I sleep at night—as if something inside it wants to get out.
But Brooklyn is decidedly right for me, given the good days and bad
days, the way time turns into a series of soft shadows on the window—You
know birds rush by in the afternoon. Through dangerous streets, not
the least bit upset.
Honestly, I read without lamps at night. Trying to swim through the
pale doorframe. There's smokestacked ash and earmarked waters. I’m
trying to find a simple way out, like the sound of a word turning into
a hand.
I’ve decided make rice in this tiny kitchen. Rice, because it
rhymes with twice. The kind you made nearly a year ago, some Sunday.
There was nothing to do but talk about whiteness, describing the way
steam rose around us.