Myself, my heels, my tracks.
Here, homes, stacked story upon stories.
Here, densely populated solitude dwells.
(An unknown women, a pink restroom,
putting on more mascara, saying:
“This is for myself, my heels, my tracks.”
Never having been, it is impossible to know;
hardly walking in my own, I can’t in hers).
The music, in different words, indifferent tone.
All alone, all the blame: loneliness, speechlessness.
Here, silence, secretly devouring bits of chocolate.
Settling for a full stomach rather than a farm.
The season’s coldness shoulder turns, shrugs.