Sunday, May 4, 2008


I hold my breath in these quiet times
of no garbage men, can collectors, and
girls with whooping coughs.

I have stopped growing, like a
moon and stars watermelon,
root vegetables in this dry season.

In other words, I have stepped outside myself.

I peel my fingernails like tiny oranges
on the subway, litter the floor with milky crescents.
This is what they call an automatic response to stress.

Once I arrive home,
a pink hand with wide fingers
blocks my view of the sun.

I lie, naked back to carpet,
peer around joints to see light.

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