The rectangle of a dollar. The rectangle of a house drawn by crayon, a wagonhouse drawn by horse by small hands.
Trace a smallhand into horse, thumbheaded. Trace a red way down the sidewalk—a wagon. Pull me. Push me. Dirt.
A wheelbarrow is trapezoidal. My trapezius is hard triangular and behind me. Hearts are not fistshaped.
Dreams are not spiral, but do spiral. Last night you making love to me were not you—you were
another man who made love once from behind me I think this is important how I did not
see your face in the dream.
How I close my eyes from you, but you are still you—it is me changing shape with shutting. Eyedoors. Years.
In the dream I went back to hurt myself with wanting other things but what
shape is that wanting? Only not rectangular.
It is that there is a box here, coffining around me, corners counseling me how I am
bad to stand in them as I do wishing else. Cave. River. Years like money. Dirtspent.
A hand pulls at its traces. There is a bit. A pencil. In this way my life is communicated to me.