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I found a place that mirrored a metal roof knifing the sky.


There was a dog circling the farm. The shape of a dog, real or not,

but haunting my living.


The gray cotton duvet, peeling house wrap. What was visible from the holes.


Pulled on your denim shirt when you were gone and in a sense was you.

Studied the hens' high-pitched ecstatic—something flying over, or egg.


As if I was being watched by a spirit who lacked creativity.


The key turned in my hand, the radio played country music.

Back from the store, I salted water in the dark.


The next bad thing happened on the news and I lacked the stamina

to remember, to make sense.


Closed the blinds and pressed a palm against a pulsing clove.

Embalmed in its bulb, in between a life in the soil and eventual rot.


Showered for no one, talked only to animals.

What to make of eight years. A living document of sounds, dry mouth.


What ways I might vanish.