On Coming in First

My gut is not big enough for both a feeling and an instinct, but give me a stick of butter and I will hand you back the wrapper, a dozen eggs and now we have us here twenty-four broken shells. What is the half-life of cruelty if caring does not go on forever?

Change cannot be defined if it has never been noticed. And the involuntary growths, the detachments of thought, the stretched skins and aching muscles we did not desire to change us at all. Who are you? I ask under cover in bed. How did you get here?

When I enter a room I must displace something so that I may take its place instead. The politics of the space begin with me and end when I turn my back and leave: if two people are alone in a room with no lights on and nobody knows that either are there, will time pass them by as we would expect it or speed past a scene that has no way of being measured?