I don’t understand things like cloth. He asks me about my behavior. I feel outrun. There is a psychological clothesline on the porch, there is a coffee table made of stone, a miniature lazy chair. I am always choking on shrunken laundry. I dry my clothes on low, I dry my clothes alone at night by screaming through a pillow. He says ABNORMAL BOOKSHELVES SOMETIMES LINE THE ROAD. I look past his face into a painting of a man who covers his face with fingers made of leaves. He is further away than you and you are as far away as my room which is full of yellow grass clippings. When he stops talking I am a lumpy threshold and you stand at the bottom of a spiral staircase in lace underwear. I want to share the blue layer of a rocket pop with you. I want to walk away from you forever, thinking EVERY NIGHT IS MADE FROM THE EXHAUST OF A GIANT TRUCK but I know the night is really made from brown moths and street lights. I keep shiny quarters in my pocket just in case. He says THAT SOUNDS SAFE.
