about a wall there rests some remains of the
second, or third to last, of my days: two teacup
kittens and a lion hung from its neck, a collage of
pigeons and limbs (a seashell resembling
its face) and grey, all grey imposed a white
wash slip; two months behind, again, three
times I repeat myself when I wish to be heard (this,
too, is a fragment pinned and crawls along the wall),
my favorite, then: an ex-lover manifesto hides
a banana which smiles, but through his hands
blue smeared marks and dead pots above the fridge,
then a fake bird juts out from a dead forest dry
on my empty dresser. Two animal heads upon the bed,
and finally a printer.
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