I agree it’s hard to make a life here.
The song doesn’t live
past seven folds, stays gaslit.
Someone gives the drunks
in the park a harmonica;
imagine that spell. Of all songs,
to land on caroling. Of all songs,
its winter may soon kill me.
One more wrong key,
and my neighbor will be hanging
out the window again,
all red screams. Possessed, I move
every piece of furniture in the apartment
until my pacing changes its shape,
spinning, bewildered even—
a Scheherazade in ruins.
I was evolving, I was taking it personally.
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