Thirteen minutes in which to describe my day. Is that what I
want to describe? Are there things gnawing at the inside of my skull that I
should make space for in this…blankness?
Two books in a cardboard box: Plath and Carson. Climbed a
tree before dinner, didn’t count the branches. Last New York apple filled my
mouth. Nine bracelets on my wrists. Rose cardigan, not enough ear piercings.
How dry my lips get when I leave my water home.
This wasn’t the Klimt I found after Christmas.
The words I want to write—which say enough to survive on?
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