I write these things
in fits you know.
it doesn’t mean that I will
do it; it means that
I am furtive and capable
of managing my face
to outwit anything
high stake or based on
principle. I am thinking
you’re thinking
what’s the probability
I still hold grudges and
what’s the likelihood
I save a thing that any
man has given or said to
me, but we also have to examine
formula, so you have to see the way

I move at night, first.
foremost, you have to
ask yourself whether my stasis
is truth or lie, and if all
serial killers love getting
caught what does that mean for

and starting to feel myself
dissolve into the walls,
I become
first so large I cannot be unseen,
and then with a snap of
my fingers, gone.
in like camouflage with the
cracks along my walks,
I could not stop myself
from seeking even in
chill, I could go from one end of town
to the other.
when the city closed the
streets for the pope,
I walked from Frankford and
Allegheny to
30th and Market,
having also biked it

and even though I had
left the mountains
in the polar vortex
something about spending an
entire two months
watching for black
ice and cars even
at red lights and being watched daily
by a nemesis who began emailing
myboss, really
made it feel much more
weighted in its bite;
the movement I had
and at such a shifting
a ponderance,
glades of icicles
to wade through,
my hamstrings so strong
towards the end of
and I hadn’t adjusted to anything.

I really could not stop
talking about the trash
it was the trash everywhere
that really shook me.
everything else became
a buzz.

“For Emma, forever ago”

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