outside the window, along the wall.
They are sluggish mouths and
they are stealing our air.
I would tear them from our house
but, instead, collapse to the floor.
I am forgetting what to look for.
When I have caught my breath,
she starts talking
(as if nothing had happened)
the vision ground into her eyes.
Her tiny anguish, her tiny shames
are confusing, are making me tired.
I know the ways to keep her quiet
and say okay, okay on my knees
to strap her thigh
to bring up her veins.
Okay, okay is the junkie song I sing her.
I can't help it anymore,
it comes out by itself.