That book you loved—the heavy one listing your human words and what they mean— it’s still where you left it all those years ago:
A belt, a pair of shoes, oil stain on the driveway— these can be incriminating. Someone drank mojito, danced merengue, he may think on
Do not put your hand inside me today, for today I bleed and have legs which do not carry me all the way to
I am living and have lost all my skin. I’ve taken to codeine, to cariprazine, to the rushing sound blood makes in my ear