slow fold inward. body can only crumple so small, into a ball, limbs roll tighter & knees bend. rip the phone from the wall; the receiver fills with sulk & the dresser clock blinks at you, it’s obscene tick. if you could stand still, stare into the sun for hours on end. if you could move. yr mind’s a knot of exhaust; the morning tried to untangle but botched & as result, you contradict. stillness or movement? both. cause crawling cross america’s wilted flesh means nothing more than standing motionless, your hands in your pockets, biting your bottom lip. the fact all yr suitcases swell with silk slips & nectarines differs none from leaning at the kitchen sink scrubbing clean yr wine stained sweater.