I bang my head all day– understand,
the end is not an option until I run out
of time (I am limitless until the zipper
closes, so to speak, an asphyxiation of a plastic
bag, its crinkle and shimmer under kitchen light). New

home but I do not yet know how to live
in it. Such few hours
inside. I used to push

my palms against fresh paint until my hands were
red, a deadening so expected I could pass through
and bereave the light that emerged
from its center, gushy and dim, how I would press
my thumb to its heart and play its saxophone’s minor
note, the bed I’d sleep in and wake
in the night on rumbling tracks.

(originally published in Eunoia Review, Fall 2023)