The bathing suit I improvised in the river I had to get up and leave to go clean. The anxiety, having to hang it, on the phone with you, given to picture the river from the side no one tends to unless, like elastic,

it fails. I tried what you poured, at night, the minute the weather could no longer be trusted to hold, in order to change, with sleeves rolled to my elbows, toast

with rose and fat melted by trusting the time it takes beside a window, open to that exact red in another part, absent light, still here, getting it, still, on my sleeves. I have nothing,

I realize in the shower, when having the hang of it, like mascara, runs. I have nothing, linen in the air conditioning, ruined by it, undone into what I can only describe as a pile, not a colloid, no matter how obviously I desire an idea with room to balloon, your dress right when the day reaches a whistle, your dress in this light, which is irreversible. The truth is an accident in the mirror,

in the heat, what she decided to share, plaid, bent in conversation at the table with someone leaning back from it, television, shattered but apparently, works, by the river. I mean I want to change what escapes me. The truth is fucked as my thigh,

having invited the devil to go outside with me.