untitled

inside    you
a lone    you

                you're
  that kind
    of guy
                in your
                             sleep

before i

photos

And there's a picture of you shooting a gun, and another of you eating ham and cheese and another of you posing with your brother and sister. And then there's another of you posing with your mother and you look sort of sad because it's just you and her and you never had any brothers and sisters and dad left a long time ago. And there's another picture of you panting and breathing and dripping by the lake. Your hair's wet. There's one of you looking offended, which is shocking, since you're so educated. There are lots of you pretending you're not being photographed, and some where you definitely had no idea. You look possessed in this one, beautiful in that one. Here's one of you nude, your breasts sagging, your penis small and blue from the cold (it was your idea to pose in the snow). You crouched over a desk. You putting on make-up. You riding a bike. Your eyes in the review mirror, the angle and light and all that somehow superimposing your mouth on your forehead. None of you crying, because I wouldn't do that. Your thumb jutted in accidentally next to the Grand Canyon. Your dog that died, whose name I feel guilty for having forgotten.