boiled potatoes and the black film on the grate over the stove
one room endlessly reiterating its dimensions.

you send a postcard from Bath
you are closed in a summer of closings.

what is the biology of this rehash?
my body intrudes on these words, a superfluous girth
if the typing hands are more than broken, are the scars present in the language?
and if I am a woman whose measure of breasts and hips is an inherent redundancy
do I owe my sex embodied text? the trickle of words slows as the flesh pulls...

all of the vibrations still
my singing voice appears a gasp
a surprise scratch on a familiar record.

if I silence the words will I
silence the shudder? if I close the shutter
will I erase the residual
image of you
endlessly receding into february snow?

above all
if I batter the self
will I find

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