Rice rhymes with twice

Letter to Jimmy

Not counting the subway pass that fell through the gutter. And the table that I tried to carry by myself. I’m okay. Afraid at night. And flies keep dying on my floor.

The newness of the room is dizzy, desirable in the way that paint slides off, how walls break like blue notes in the morning. The room expands while I sleep—

But Brooklyn is decidedly right for me, given the good days and bad days, the way time turns into a series of soft shadows on the window—You know birds rush by in the afternoon. Through dangerous streets, not the least bit upset.

Honestly, I read without lamps at night. Trying to swim through the pale doorframe. There’s smokestacked ash and earmarked waters. I’m trying to find a simple way out, like the sound of a word turning into a hand.

I’ve decided make rice in this tiny kitchen. Rice rhymes with twice. The kind you made nearly a year ago, some Sunday. Was nothing to do but talk about whiteness and the steam rose around us.

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