Annette’s hands are candle wax—
at least as far as shadows are concerned,
twisting in ways that are non-harming.

She said she went to a girls’ reform school
in West Berlin,
where the bookshelves were dusty scars
so old she forgot—ugh, what’s his name?
They were torn from their families.

We had a common interest
in destroying the vapid
with how much we drank
in her New York apartment.

We knew with total certainty
we were witnessing
the decline of Western civilization—
of course Evan still needed to go on walks.
Otherwise, he’s an Ignoble weasel.
Without meaning.

So we write what goes through our heads:
there’s hope for tomorrow
because of Iggy Pop—
the dead future
with makeup
but contained.

“How do you feel about fictionalizing the crisis?” I asked.
“Unhappiness has a beginning.”

Okay then—dominate me.

When something reminds her of the past,
she focuses
on her hands.