K in P (plus one) | Kimberly Lyons


Later, in April morning light

the contrary intensities

of a hotel, a collapsed transit,

rusted coils and snow

seem as oblique as thought

the gravelly hours of a film.

I went through there.

I have the white piece of paper,

the address. As though this

notification of an appointment

identifies the future,

hold a frame in which I'll walk

up the pale blue broken stairs

strewn with bolts, a Barbie,

butts, and a black rag.

The oiled procession

of unbecoming.

First clothing

freed from its pins.

A body flies

blanketed by smoke.