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Canned peaches tasting like dessert, you got for free from the food pantry; canned peaches is struck gold, tins three in the back. Write notes thanking them you want the donors to come back, & claustrophobic orbiting around each others’ schedules in this tiny house, it’s all critically panned movies - Sucker Punch, The Phantom of the Opera - closest to your self. Summers will only get warmer. Distance only grow longer. You go off meds to inoculate yourself against grief and it doesn’t happen yet; two rooms, quarter of bathroom, incompatible kinds of depression, cardboard boxes accumulating in your kitchen without permits or nights you don’t call them or lives you can’t decide between or sieves or sieges or new things, all your conversations are written, English is a language allowing you to clog with homographs. You want more of them. More isolation, more distance.
