Sometimes the chain-link fence keeping-in the ivy
of your home, with bright posters on each wall
has more to do with information, with the way
faux-taut helices of metal and rust can be understood
not in-themselves, but in-how-you-might-hope-to-use-them.

So, holding hands with two girls who may be unable to think really of my reluctance to dance, the metal bugs on my teeth, how I would smile tightly, queerly, without eyes; holding hands with them, I circled the fire—and there’s this one photo of me, blurred by the heat from across the way, plus the smoke and sparks, the distance and the double-grain of the 800 film and the Thrifty digital processing, with lips like a red fingernail clipping, tall and stupid with discontent, holding hands without feeling.
We make …