Once upon a time Goliath fell.

They built buildings on his body

and David walked away without looking back

didn’t know his victory

until he moved

opened the door

to have his pebble drop at his feet

looked up and his apartment was

the white pulp of a gigantic eye dripping blood.

David is meant for spaces

muddy brooks, gaping skies

flanked by open, gnashing trees

skies that swallow

cigarette smoke, pollen dust, and sweat.

He wants to go where the government doesn’t care

where you can flick the paperwork

off like straggling hay.

David does not want to know he is living

off others’ misery, will not swim where

there are leeches.

But he lies down in a bed, in a carcass

with white walls, strings up the eyelids

for a shower curtain.

The water is not salty

but the air conditioner sounds like fading breaths.

David does his laundry every Thursday

and ignores the centipede next to him

dropping sock after sock into his washing machine.

He doesn’t watch TV much.

Sometimes he browses the paper

and when he’s driving

mentally takes pictures of “for rent” signs.

He got an air freshner a few days ago.

It makes the rot smell like cinnamon.

David keeps his pebble on the dresser by the bed