The credits recover,

and suddenly like a k9 you snuffle the criminal boyhood out of my skin.

I always think myself circumspect in my cover-ups, but in seconds you know where my blindspot is.

Mmm, you are a distracted assent, you coat like cold sweat,

glisten

like contented sleep.

And then you are songless– muh like mundane, buzzing of the lampshade fibers,

quivering

from the lamplight flicker.

they say you don't know what goes on behind closed doors,

and once I slam one getting out of my car I'm not sure I know either

going from ...that, to a shift, is a shift to be sure

I'm left shaking, the routine bittersweet cure

is work

a halmoni's recipe

one with withered paper

scribbled calligraphy

rustic annotations

a dilapidated polaroid

i see as an ember of burning reels of film