I have a house. I have a house. It is not my house that I have. It is not my house, anymore. I have a house about to tell you. A house about to tell you how. A have now house about me anymore. Let’s talk about that. Let’s talk anymore. Let’s talk dear, or do more. Let’s do more that a house will tell us how. That house will ask us, not another. Not another any. Not house another, how. I have it here. I have it, and have my dear, do more. I have a house. Not my house. Not any house.

The warmth on my leg is this generation. The blankness I see is the next. These things scare me, a little, but I’m largely prepared. I’ve taken all the appropriate notes. I’ve followed the small child down the hall with his bathroom pass into the teachers’ lounge. Wood meets metal on a desk and asks for clemency but gets screwed. Gouges on the floor remark casually about enormous gaps in the mind. That is a flower print dress. That is a pencil unsharpened. This is the first drop of sweat down my back.

We work to wait, are filled with nothing coming. We sea the breeze before we sail it awkward into some wet future. We are snake and shudder, ply, a practice, a certain order. We are fixed, are from some fixture. We are unfrom. See? Please, do not ask about us. Do not wick that fickle gesture. Do we need to bend this talent backwards? Do we need to open further than feels natural? Try this: place one hand above us and one hand below, and see which feels something first.

I’m both too busy and, when I’m too close, not moving. A little wait. A broken apartness of features. A tongue on broken teeth. I’m broken busy, too busier, {this part of the sentence was erased by you.} Thank you. I’m tracking it all right now, from a room that’s smaller than time. It sees and seems me. It forms a little in. An in that says, see what falls completely. That says what slips a little, wait. Says wait? Says wait for this tool for getting. Says this is what I mean by resistance.

Show me how to look forward to these things. To see them and pursue. It is something to bark like a dog barks. It is something to wade in the snow like a chicken, lost. My hands don’t feel their fingers, and so my answers come but do not grasp the reason for their caring. Still they care. They take long baths and watch the water flush without spinning down a drain dead center between a world where I breathe under water, and a world where water is the substance of my skin.