Stolen by the painter with the lazy hands

And what is the problem with curtains?

It’s the swirling apathy of the strings

The stitches that crackle in the autumn winds

The open windows that let a bit of—

And why do you chatter so?

It’s the banging on my ankles

By the insouciant neighbor-boy next door

My shackles ripping into flesh I can’t believe I have

It’s the penguin sticker on my—

My, my, my crisp loaf of bread

Hanging off the edge of the window seal

As the dogs jump and bark at it to fall

To crunch in juicing mouths

To hollow out their spiraling—

Before the fall?

Last week, before the fall, the day before

The fall

That’s when the bottle flew through the window

“when, when , when?” I asked to a darkened dungeon

When my skin began to rot as he baked upstairs.

But when the dogs jump the juices squeeze

And when?

And when the 20 pound dark filled the room

My eyes would blot.

The painter dripped onto my face.

And when he’s done

The bread, the curtains, the dead skin—