Rakh

Dim as the 5 sky from this day on. Blue as slate archangels on stretches of sofa, or the pin cushion. All we false ever took from pain’s we’re right. Okay with roulette, you say, closing your eyes and pointing to your good ear: so long as we hear some spin. Aaaction. Faces halved by jalousie panes—that look—beside the door clicking shut. A lukewarm figure forming on the drapery until the spot of two lights, then the creases evaporate, some to memory, some to meaning. Not one of you gets to come home to both. Mass is collecting. Repeating yourself as if to lose count.