Liquid on formica follows patterns the eye makes—

mustachioed Juan Valdez painting faces on the beach—

or a woman carefully pouring French springwater into ice trays—

On the sill a transistor radio is decomposing into static:

               buzzkill                         turpentine

Press star seven seven for additional privacy.
Press star pound star to disappear utterly.

And reappear at a pinched cry from an alley—

The map unfolds in traffic.
Context requires wrinkles,
even digital context. Context
is one of the slower-deploying
airbags.

And did you hear about the woman
crushed under the weight of her own hair?

It’s not a star, it’s an asshole.
This guidebook tells me the difference.

It begins:                  “I feel so small in the world.

“—My face is a concave lens. My eyes are the plate glass windows
that the dirty rain talks to and smears.”