Disappointment

A faint smell of urine embroidering that bouquet of mold the big cushions give off days the fog won’t lift, and a shelf of bone growing out over the eyelids like evening’s shadow across a field of corn— The whole parade leaking out from your shoulders, bequeathing to the groin a pang of distance; then that metallic taste in the mouth and a voice you had let yourself believe was dead close now by your ear, intimate and sweet: Well, well, well, look what we have here.