exhaling

I am thinking doctorate now I am thinking settling down I am thinking solitude and then


There's a song by Frou Frou on the radio that does it. In the dying light of the setting sun in the darkened room I hold my fake redbrown hair away from my forehead in the mirror and today

I could be a post-modernist's vision of deconstructed, shattered beauty with manicured hands I could
and my face melts into the shadows and I let myself fall on the bed delicately

my bones must be tinkling inaudibly somewhere

Deep into the night we sit in the basement working on squares inscribed in circles and circles inscribed in squares and I think of how it takes Ammi just one hour of cupboard cleaning to leave me so completely displaced.



(Someone wrote: I'm nowhere and there's nothing. It's as if there's no time and space here. Just the moment, with no hint in my mind as to what might have preceded it. It's not that I am, it's more like I merely do.)