I lie very still on the bed of the densitometer as its arm sweeps over my body. Unlike Vesalius or even Galen, the doctor won't see me as a figure stepping off a pedestal—it wants to see inside itself and so moves aside the curtain of its own scalpeled flesh, revealing organs so neatly penciled …
I have winter in me
go to ice where I sit
and become snow
under the barber's hand
but a bottle is a good
hard time
I read a clock
with pleasure after that
I pick leaves to make into books—my zamisdat, my kind of dissident printing in a time when algorithms dictate so many human interactions. If I click on an ad for a yellow raincoat, my feed gets flooded with a hundred more. I don't want to buy, I'm only browsing. But what did I look at …