The Lazy Susan’s nothing but an ideological pun. Likewise, the lakeshore is a scant suggestion of itself, a slope inward and downward, wave after wave after.

Took me four shots of tequila last night to remember I could live with myself.

Clouds ruin everything, and years regress into two distinct bedtime sounds: a baby crying two homes down, a mother crying two homes down.

I role-play. I am Aristotle, alone. Planes and planes and planes and planes of particulars.

Too often I mention black: ink, silence, insatiable ice, ceiling ceiling ceiling fan.

The sand gives way at dusk, then brings itself about in towels and swim trunks.

The images inside clouds ruin everything. The copse-ware, forearms, the fertile soil just beyond, asses, oaks, and thence the work of the job.

Inside us is a black black door, and I don’t like the looks of it.

Claws like an eagle’s, birthmarks on everyone’s hands.

The fate of children is that they require help helping themselves.

So too the so too. Cracks in my cinder walls, my T-shirt drawer diverted from its track, a glimpse of anything other than lakeshore daylight.

As we have been, we will go.