Iceland territory where everything is frozen in flows across the mountaintops. Sitting on a stack of encyclopedias and gazing at my pocket watch, not caring about time, just waiting for the tuxedo cat crawling toward me on all fours in a fuzzy mélange of possible pathways toward the future. There’s a point to this. All the king’s men stolen
from under my rug without a wishbone. Red banners wrap around my head. Yellow caution lights. Stars go black hole. I
swivel outside a white curtain, a shower curtain isolates my case number, my eyes wear black dress circles, breath vibrates through sheets, marshmallow white. Float toward a window. I still don’t know where I stand.