My house is mine:
the choice of menu,
the radio and television,

I sit on the dock for a haircut and watch
as summer spreads out, relieving the general,
indiscriminate gray, like a mouthful of gin

I don’t really like the ferries that make the water a scary vortex,
or the blurry white sun that blinds me, or the adorable small families 
of distressed ducklings that swim in a panic when a speedboat cuts 

If Marius should ask himself, roused by the night,
Have the gods forgotten me?

Hansel and Gretel were picking strawberries 
and listening to a bronze cuckoo.  
As the forest mist thickened, 

I lived in a rooming house then 
and tried to be good but was a real 
disappointment. A man without cunning 

The transfer is done in a dark room
with a red light to keep them calm.  
Still, it’s stressful, hanging upside down, 

I have given you back to her,
locked the letters in a box.

Why do they lie down
when I shoot them?
Such open,

I came from a place with a hole in it,
my body once its body, behind a beard of hair.   
And after I emerged, all dripping wet,