I don’t deny you, nor do you fit into my thinking about things right now. This is the real world. Your name was Tenney. I did not tend to you as I should have. It was night and I threw you into the garbage behind my house. I know I should have buried you. In a basket adorned with bread and flowers, then raised you and laid your white body down. It is confusing. My friends are so rare. My remembering sees you and your little white body. I think of you as some sort of facet of my life, a doornob or a little white vase holding the flowers of your death. It is all at night is the thing.
* published in “Intercapillary/Space”