Letter by Letter

Stop using your hands to cover your body in the basement is a punching-bag that belongs to the young man upstairs asked not to use it in the kitchen a mouse we’ve never seen fingers along the doorframe an abstract feeling of ugly can keep you indoors with these lonely-feeling the way a rainbow disappears on a blue set or a row of quarters into the dryer that tumbling sound as a child when your mother washed your tennis-shoes and they did emerge again but how now like something that belonged to somebody else