It is Saturday. The sky is dim. I am waiting.
I am waiting, it seems, for some tide to turn. I am waiting for my ride to arrive. I am waiting to remember, to remember my way.
First empty the trash, then look at the sky.
Being seen, I am body, all angle, motion, texture. Being seen lingers like a stain.
There is a rattling in the socket. I have lost the key to all the secret houses.