The closet where the black sweaters hang. Where the game of backgammon is played
with the thin wafers left over from communion. Of course they break and the crumbs
travel everywhere, refugees so small that even the mice turn carnivorous, squeaking with
pleasure even though they haven’t yet begun to eat.
And how tight will that wire wrap the barbs inside itself? All objects when abandoned
develop a talent for self-loathing. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at
all. How else could the elbows wear so thin? How else could the bird fly into your