The wet things, that're
constantly drying. Ian,
on top of other Ian, who's
crying quietly. The phone
rings, and is thrown against
wall and answers in
explicably. No sound from
the pile of clothes but mumbling
mother, or whoever.
Wet classes are drying,
and the heat on the glasses
found the wet in the air
and cloud up. Why is Ian
Ian lust, for missing one
missing the other. The dust
from cylinders of cigarettes
sublimated into layer on
everything the ups and valleys
in this carpet, grey. The shiny
CD back and fronts now matter.
Now Ian.
