chalk. chalk, black paper. the
methodical nod, up down
meaning in the crushed, compact bones
set against a grain of soaked
emaciated pulp.

there is a girl
in my mind
who walks barefoot in the rain
which comes
down like starlight
through the broken lens
of storm drains.

if there was poetry, she would be going somewhere, a character set in some tragedy, in the midst of suffering, before triumph, and beauty, and dry clothes, in lovingly crafted rooms.

what is this feeling? when the girl finds rooms like the ones in the interiors-gallery of the city-museum, what is there, but floors, to sit on quietly?

beds, and chairs. cushions & sheets. the stillness of life, kills. babies wail down the hall, though the floors are waxed & gleaming. this is a very nice kitchen. knick-knacks here, salt & pepper shakers there. the ugliness of napkins, in this utilitarian holder here.

this is all a cave.