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.