Anything can happen in life, especially nothing.

—Michel Houellebecq

I. 

Since I never learned how to drive, for the two weeks I spent in 

my childhood home I did nothing except to rot myself into ruin. 

Spent no time in the sun until my skin bleached pale and my legs 

grew hairy. Did little other than read about sex and tourism; both 

apart and together until the idea of another body became as exotic 

as 500-year-old perpetual stew. Replayed Cocteau Twins until my ears

fell off and I could recite Serpentskirt by heart. Pulled tarot cards. Pulled

the weeds in the front lawn. Pulled myself apart in the mirror analyzing

my body’s flaws. My hips awkward and damp in the morning light. Peeled

away the skins of almonds and left them in the ashtray. Let myself loose. Let everything go. 

II. 

Everything is a revelation 

upon another. 

Touched a prickly pear with the same 

tenderness 

I would touch 

the fat 

beneath my underarms. Grew 

another 

centimeter of 

armor. Poked an earring 

hole and 

attached a dumbbell 

weight. 

III. 

Counted all the road signs on the ride to the airport. 

Drove past the Bayou, the megachurch, the aquarium,

the Rothko Chapel. Could’ve said something here about

Permanence, but like the billboard on the highway with 

a black & white photo of two women kissing one another:

I KNEW IT WAS OVER & YOU KNEW THAT TOO.