I am a good person with a bad heart.

The photographer takes a picture of a thousand open refrigerators. 
Because refrigerators are inhabited more than bodies are. 

You are the soup that fills my skull. 
You will be hanged because the world we’re guessing at doesn’t exist. 

Roads bend back into their own meatus. 
Yesterday, I amputated it. 
If only I could show you.

It was the color of blanched skin with a little bit of pink and blue. 
I put it in the fridge above the lettuce, next to the butter. 
The photographer takes it out because it is too artificial. 
What can I say?

You can tell anyone anything if it happened in a dream.