Paired knobs prickle down the heavy bureau like nipples.
I have walked through a year’s water, depression’s deeps and shallows.
In the dead woman’s filing cabinet I find a list of dirty Latin words: “ducunt…”
Barefoot, I grate orange peel at the counter, and when I shift my weight
I crush crumbs into the wooden planks.
The fan shrugs cold shoulders inside its metal cage and shadows intersect upon the walls.
Sex and death, sex and death. This is a deep part.
I breathe and the seas press back at my chest.
Two squirrels hump on a telephone pole, suspended by their claws,
shredding the sweet pine.
The leaves in the gutters exhale brown heat.
Feathers skitter past the carcass of a cardinal.
A contrail of sweat shines on the bicycle seat.
Wading is slow, although the water shifts like silk.