And your mother’s Tupperware and this screen

But the air, the ground, the water

Everything is poison.  The new wax cylinders are tempting

Giving you back your voice, time after time, until they wear out

But such small pleasures were not meant for us. They come back

Burrowed in the sheaths, the lambskin

Coddling our nerves, and sing them swollen

The thump and stomp of the press will be the death of us

This living in one place—no good can come of it

This giving names to things, this unnatural

Position of the spine.  It’s like

I don’t know you anymore. Look at me.

Look at me, with those eyes like dying stars.