[Disarticulated Prose Poem]

while quarantining, you wear the partitioned office room of a
summer home, lent to you as charity so you would not infect
your grandmother

You are told to not rummage through the office room’s items.
That the homeowners are “private people.”

after the buccal surgery, our last guest appeared as if a wraith
in the thickness of the sauna

                                        mottled weave of a painted chair. Reprints

The homeowner celebrates the closing of a deal. An offer on a
capacious apartment. You metabolize this

the German cognate for “room” means “space.” In that way
the nebulas are like superlative hotels.

All of the Easter Island heads have submerged bodies.
It is like that

finding the spot in the summer home where nobody looking in
will see you undress. Laying your items over the filing cabinets

When your mother scares the homeowner by walking down
the driveway in a massive coat. In a long scarf

                    —they were in the hot tub—

you apologize. How are you complicit? How are you complicit

Read more from Issue 22.2.