I wish I could speak the poetry of solitude, but it's too fragmented; it's slices of cold ground and bright air from seven different years. A table you know better than you know how to eat the food nearby (another woman's been beaten to death; every fucking day in the fucking paper). Shirts leaping up and up as if by their own will in a drier who speaks only to itself.
It's days and days of the road salt you tracked across the wooden floor, it's the way the carpet you don't even like is pounded down harder over here, it's the black sheet you threw up over the blinds. That's why it drives people mad.
Meaning won't stick to it. It won't go anywhere. No matter how hard you pound it, it gives nothing. But it's everything.
Chipped paint on the green door being stalked by that kudzu. A living bridal veil married to everything else and now reaching for that door. You broke your key in it. You still don't know how; you didn't mean to. The boy is disgusted with you. He won't meet your eyes. You remember the other boy managing to shut the school-bus door from the outside and then blaming it on the girls.
Purple clouds in the night and the feel of the engine. Speed is a false freedom. So maybe the four walls are a false prison. The moon likes to look in.
The man in that movie said, "The second you do not respect this it will kill you."
