as a breath, inundated, text, wooden table
subaltern musings, ink, paper, tracing paper
Marie-Ange: a feverish excitement beyond pain, ink and varnish on paper
Isabel: took its psychic silence, ink and varnish on paper
Install of The Communists Are In The Funhouse
You crouched behind me how long,
close as a shadow licked and sealing against the
cracks a body makes when its weight is shifting
– shifting quickly in these leaves that crunch as apples
and a mother you loved a long time ago saying
Was it really not you, on the stairs?
We’ve ghosts again, little bent over things.
Little things made for tripping.