Not Today

The house is under a pall today. Perhaps on your way to you could come see? I swear it was not, yesterday. Today is what it is now, all is and that. Letters and
not, like that, for heaven’s sake. There again. Shapes, as instances where there were before such and such. Or darkened bars, then I looked away I was breathing too hard. It was in kitchen perhaps. Now amid the spoons. Not really perhaps though. Say it is trilling from somewhere, or the photograph that used to be. Tuesdays. I will have you check my pulse— it is a remnant. High bright spots like I think light? In a train but what is the word? Under a pall.
Were there always these spaces under the bed? Do they come out? Is that the same kind of soap we use? Is, that is. Someone came over. They used my name. No, but it’s the same I’ve always had. Looked all over. Three letters on the night table. Writing I don’t recognize. These are for something. It’s the same noise there too. A high whine like silver—then I look. There was something you were going to bring. It has sharp edges. Stay away, anyway. It’s too soon. Do you have some of that? Some one, some thing, very useful you know but not those words, not those. Some words but not those—what were they? Fur in the corners, someone but with four legs. Where they shouldn’t be again. I called out loudly but I needed a name. So I called without a name, I called out.