this time last year—pacing the bedroom to get cell signal
trying to keep my voice down—sound travels, ricochets
sometimes this house feels like nothing—somehow here
I am lost—and in the French national archives—standing beneath
posters from May ’68—can’t remember the slogans—something
about imagination something about the future—I have spent
too much time talking—I have talked too much—and something
feels exposed in me, something that’s still here—sitting in on
the Zoom—three of us lined up on the couch—a business meeting
I spend the entire time wondering—what part of me has so much
trouble with this? what part is listening—this month last year
in the Owl’s Club a G-winning poet hooked their leg around mine
and asked me to come home with them—I said I still hadn’t
gotten over my ex, which was true—on Dovercourt felt released and
sympathetic in the long shadow of some Futurist’s cool blue—
I’m always betraying what I say or think—another photograph
cluster of buildings downtown—I was trying to forget someone
taking the light in—nuclear white at the top of just one building
always think God is touching down—the second season of Fleabag
plays in the other room—had a crush on a Catholic when it
came out—but really a crush on some part of myself—something
I thought I was ignoring—light or passion or death—perhaps
only death—perhaps nothing—reaching—into the light or towards
the brick’s phosphorescence
