after Aaron Kunin
In the foreground, we
encounter a peculiar
music of keys, of laundry
being unfolded, of machines
building new machines
to show us how sadness
works in a loop. We
discover that the truth
is wired to rooms
our children continually
rename. We move through
them without moonlight
without any pencils
to weather out our findings.
Even our findings become
the city around us--bunkered up,
unstuck from the trees, fizzing
in the wires we think are missing.
