the doctors have a heyday with my ‘life as a trough’ routine
sitting upright, waiting
the way a corner slug dreams of the fleshy heel

they read so much into a bruise
maybe praise you for your technique of a backhand and a
dirty sink

tragic, that the clocks will never spin when spoken to
rushing us towards the end
towards the good parts

the skin-tight memory we force down a well
and bring up as
something useful

funny, that they'd let you out
to an empty field, to oblivion
to this once and difficult house

what is left to do here?
what is left to be
done?