10 p.m. and I search the internet for photos of libraries.

From different angles, what I knew I no longer know: All is new, now.

I should say something about the body, how it yields to oil, succumbs.

The sun came out a week ago; I remember it vaguely: shadows.

Tonight the suburban sky is dark, pine trees darker, crows darker still.

In the day’s last light, trees are still, books are still—all but my mind is still.

As a truck’s reverse alarm sounds, I expect the rain to fall backwards.

Guthrie Martin residence, two sides of a bedroom window, 5:02 p.m. May 25, 2010:

The oil-dark bird flew from my attic, turned to look at me through the glass.

My language no longer matches up with my perceptions: It tells lies.