What They Tell You
You will never excise want. All evening stock simmers in the dutch oven and ants
convene around the cat’s dish. What students I have distrust me and
call me ma’am, and the chalkboard is a ledger of fruitless exchange. Through the window
beyond the desk, the finch sock hangs
portentous but no birds come. I go to bed each night. Insomnia will not save you from
anyone’s misgivings.
No one will fuck the shy girl’s casing. Look again, and off I go with the Times, newsprint
heady with desire to mark me, my sheets, my face.
The city was burning—or it wasn’t.
I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.
What They Tell You
The world is my