I’m using a copy of Lyrical Ballads as a doorstop. It helps breezes circulate the carcinogenic heat. It helps me think.

Honestly, I don’t need to think so much. I brim with fleshy flowers; they bend far below my eyes, breathe the waste from my lips, pilsner lipids to indeterminate points of refraction. Confections tumble from slits in the hot white sky; they collect on C Street in crusty puddles that serrate reflections. When I examine myself I find that I am sharp.

When I pause to listen to the birds I see they’re singing love songs.