Inside these darkest holes inside my lungs the past pulls apart, too, like unnoticeable clouds. I look up, there are no more clouds. I smile at my nice shoes. It feels like new corduroy to be ordinary in the daylight. I only smiled because I was a little bit tired, of holding him up for her. The picture sagged, but I did first. I’m still eating last year’s tomatoes. Let the rat have the crawlspace, I said, over a mouthful. The echo is canvas-like, and mostly shadow, except where a bar of light refuses to see us again. Dreams are like silence we scoop with forgotten ears. Lean against me, warm then, until I, too, forget what I came here for.
Theodore Worozbyt’s books are The Dauber Wings, Letters of Transit, and Smaller Than Death. Translations of his work have appeared and are forthcoming in Po&sie.