That year it snowed backwards, or upside down. Jeff lost his sense of smell. I was grabbing at
quarters, surrounded by her shoes. The sun blinding, above the clouds. Print isn’t ideal. Wind
still isn’t a metaphor. I wasn’t shy, but scared. Stretched out over the barline of noon. Derivative
as it is, I enter a building behind the bank. What’s a fire escape to you? Now that the hawk is
perched there. Under the overpass, where it never rains. The lights don’t come on.
It’s time. Look at this balloon. I can’t pretend we didn’t notice. Run a loose raspberry across your lips. It
was not without pain, but the pain was quick. Take pleasure in watching the factory burn. It’s
cold, even by the window.