It’s always winter somewhere. Our glaciers retreat and advance, pushing the earth into grimy ridges, sullen furrows.
She tells me I can’t write about this, like this – it’s just not done – she’s so earnest, leaning forward over the desk.
I’m in this store at the bottom of a hill, counting my arm scars, watching, through the store’s back window, the old spruces on the hill, naked
and scruffy at the bottom near their roots, but light blue and deep green and violet
at their tops, slowly waving. I can’t feel
the breeze in the shop; it’s hot and closed and dusty. There are some sentences you should just stay away from.
The knobby, polished pine floor boards seem shrunken, as if they’ve moved away from each other. Here and there in the gaps, clumps of dust and thread stuck on splinters.
Dark books mount the corner shelves, warped by water, delicate, cookie-crumb edged.
What to do with this whole mess.
As I read about them, I imagine what the animals smelled like. I hear them huffing and snorting, see their breath rise in the morning. I try to build a corral, or I try to plan to build a corral, using scissors, paper and a little bit of charcoal.
Old glass bottles on the windowsill, lumpy with light-colored dirt and white
residue inside their necks. Square or round, violet or light blue,
none of them bigger than my hand.
A ticking in the walls,
as if a determined
insect or small machine.
I fall to the floor; I put my eye to the gap between boards.
And past floating curls of dust, in the dim, I see you looking, or what looks like you, a key just out of reach.
In which the psychoanalytic is manifested in the physical. In the future, I will know what to do with these hands.