The acoustics in this room are unforgiving, still carrying our footsteps like offcenter drums–my heel/toe to
your loping stride taking two of me to catch up. And the art and the walls, how I found myself being
pried away since I couldn’t stop staring with the back of my hand to my mouth in some horrified joy with
tears streaming down my face. In other words, why I’d rather venture to the galleries and certain shows
alone–yet to find someone to cry with, who doesn’t glance around my head awkwardly searching for a
culprit. Sometimes I want being moved to be my secret. It’s really none of your business.
Unless, unless. To these back rooms you are invited. Sometimes. I leave it ajar–have to keep something just
for my palms to warm around. Or is it something I can call mine, is it just passing through–am I just a
system for it to circuit? These the type of questions that bob to the top when I’m sitting on the edge of
my seat at the ballet with a wet face. I let my nose run, I get messy. This, after all, is movement. I am
not a keeper of clean lines.
I treat the well-timed phone calls or playlist the same, a thing or two so slight yet shocking. It is how you can
smell a season. It is what you tape to the walls. It is walking away, just like it is staying, or what our
limbs do as we sleep. Thickets of spines all flowing toward the same source. My arrows will always find
some fat to sink in.



