The paper is never blank
Canvas never chalky
The book pages never unnumbered
The gravestone never uncut
It always says Bedford St
It always reads “fire”
He always stands in the way
Of the self-subsistent shot
The film is never unused
Rather like her
Filled with faces, places she can’t allocate
Only in nightmare can she call them by name
I try write, rewrite
Dye, bleach, re-dye, meditate
Inward, outward, downward, upward
The garment is always sewn a size too tight
If only the path I walk were as untouched as I feel
A marble stair so traveled by,
I was told take comfort in the bowing tread
I was told take solace in what I have