The woman murmured, Everything, everything.
She loved clean surfaces, the color white,
but she doesn't know what to do any longer.
She goes out into the rain where the trees
gleam black and the dark is green under them.
Out there she reminisces about one night
so long ago and how, since then, time has been
fingering her thighs and perforating her bones.

What would she do with a marble angel?
With a marble moon? Gravity is also weighing
on him and has left his face a network of
disappointments under the tree where he
carved their names, so she vows she won't
let his shadow inflate the house tonight.
She writes the words, I exist, even though
she's given up thinking, And the world also exists.

(Published in New Madrid — 2017)