[Response to “I pick up a container of hummus…” and “The standard protocol is…”]

The weather is unreasonably unseasonable and even though the signs slump in the snow you suspect there is something the pictures want from you. You’ve forgotten the way back to the place where you last brushed your teeth and where you last lowered your eyelids and spit into a sink below the standard metal frame of a bathroom mirror. Where the condition of your eyes tickled you or maybe seeded in you an image of unwrapped boxes piled just south of a tall brick wall. It could be said that you are one carpet frog away from bouillabaisse.

A car horn startles the rind of the afternoon. What really chafes is the thought seated behind your irises. The thought made of photographs taken from different angles of a garbage can relentlessly pressed into the snow like a bird beak into ice cream. The day he said to you it would always be that way.

[read the response “Thicklace inmemory carpent…”]


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