For weeks I have been waking up
in the living room curtains,
their shrug and frump,
and there
I have not met a single person.
In the folds where I am rolled,
some mornings I have seen the Andes,
strands of wax, and in the stitches
once I made out a line of ants
carrying their minute burdens.
Everything that appears possible
can be turned into something impossible.
If a face appears, if I recognize a posture,
I raise a hand to flatten it.
A tassel bunches the damask
like the tie of a robe,
but when it’s loosened
no legs fall out, no eye,
no heart drops
from its monstrous socket.

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