AN AFTERNOON LOST ON TRYING ST.

APRIL 7, 2013

it’s just not working out the way you’d hoped: all in and still the cards won’t hold. a hundred ideas float listless against a flickering wall: of thought, of neurons firing, of blood vessels red behind tight-shut eyes. still the ancient discomfort nibbles at the thin lining of your best understanding, threatening imminent collapse, threatening defeat. and all the most relevant metaphors wither: growing tired, tattered, stale. the room shrinks around you by inches, then feet, and the walls change color from soft green to claustrophobia much less like how home should feel. all for the sake of this accidental therapy, all for the hope of satisfaction, salvation: even if only for the space of one short breath. still, the lamp stays where it was when you started. and the rows of shoes. and the sunset sounds of dogs barking, birds whistling, doors closing: they all say, get up. go out. drink the breath of a wind through nostrils flared before the night closes in for good. they say, leave the rest behind; the words will take care of themselves.

standing, a pillow pressed against the wall retains the faint shape of your spine as you stretch, then walk through the open door.