Last night camouflaged thoughts spoke through mouths pressed to the cloth of sleeves, hard edge of a shoulder blade.
Verbs are fast, slow.
What I took is taken. Here, my department, a voice says who's there. The phone rings. Those years were knotted intention, slowed to two hands traced on a wall in black charcoal again and again, impatient fingers tap unsteadily through the night, looks longing to substitute place for a moment of unconditional release. Wanting solitude and wanting magnitude is the frenzy that eludes our control.