There’s there there. A sweet empty
vacuum bag smells of industry,
its provenance. I try a xylophone
note, a sound like burnt yellow.
Approximations don’t
mimic; they stand
in a room
full of doors. My legs
are hungry for money,
hang over a man’s ribs.
I argue I am trying to be myself
when I sever a cucumber. Each
object presents its presiding objects.
An elbow grinds
into a caramelizing thigh bruise.
I remove an article, an
article too particular to understand.
A kitten sleeps, shaped
as a pair of slumped lungs.
I must laugh at my brain fog,
seran wrap over my eyes.
Is authorship anything? I am a
single combination of cells,
dander under a god nail,
duplicating. I press my thumb
to my femoral nerve until
a white light blinks myself open.
You enter me, a door
warped. In the crease, there.