That Question: Notes Toward a Poetics of Truth
The door slams—she
The door slams—she cannot
The door slams—she cannot remember
The door slams and she stumbles down the steps
in a t-shirt, nothing else.
Blood footprints follow her.
The door slams and she manages to get out
but where are her shoes?
She wouldn’t fuck him
Her clothes are in the house
Her washing machine photographs cutlery
are in the house also
Everything she owns
lives in the house . . .