Thursday, April 29, 2010



Phone booth, closet, airplane bathroom.
Confessional. Elevator.
Tanning bed, MRI machine.
Chambers in a revolving door.
The slim space on the train
near the pole, hands stuck in
from every angle like bristles on a brush.

A tight squeeze need not be three hundred
and sixty degrees. The dentist’s
chair. The bathtub’s bony prodding
of the knob at the base of the neck,
the spine. The driver’s seat, wedged
up against the wheel. The walls
of steam creeping tight and near after the shower.

Steep stairwells. Poorly-ventilated rooms packed
and bulging with still air. The flocked
partitions of cubicles chopping
up offices. Attics and garages.
Crawlspaces. A clogged freeway,
one side glowing red with brake lights,
the other white, roads full as veins carting blood cells.

Starched shirts. Turtleneck sweaters, fat, wool scarves.
Netting stretched over toe and thigh
and waist, seam biting into belly and tag
licking at the lower back. Seat belts.
Corner booths, bar seating, freezer section
of the supermarket, here you are
doubly attendant, breathing down the back of your own neck.

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