The sheep grazing in the field
across the road from a low-rent taxidermy school
can’t sleep at night, so how can I feel all right
about counting them? A long shower,
the drive to school, coffee from the nearest stand:
every move I make
is killing somebody. My own armoire’s
been giving me the silent treatment
for eighteen years. I like people
whose eyes flash a little darker when I come near;
I think hey, you must be onto something.
In the night, I’m not invisible
but I’m not quite so visible either,
depending on how you focus your eyes.
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