blurred photographs of dogs running.
it looks like females. it looks like a nose broken
or a lip split. and cock your head back,
running toward a wall. black page, white ink,
bruise on your hip. holding onto things like
his shirt sleeve, his way of never engaging in conversation,
of clasping his hands together and wringing them out
like washcloths. black gum erasers for eyes, and miles of
wooden telephone poles line the road.
a worm wriggles out of the ground, and i’m chewing
the webbing between my thumb and forefinger,
not letting myself leave the house without a morphine drip in my arm.
not letting myself leave the house at all.
you in a sundress in the grass. you in a functioning icebox.
me with a shard of glass in my finger.
and he looks over his shoulder at a crowd,
at a blurred photograph, at nothing in particular
and no one stopping.