The screen is a hot square against my thumb

The screen is a hot square against my thumb.

I pinch the glass until the bar light

blurs into red and yellow blocks of salt.

He’s wearing the heavy green plaid

I bought when the radiator started to hiss.

There, by the second button, is the thread

I meant to snip—a tiny, frayed white nerve

hanging by a ghost of a stitch.

A stranger’s hand is hooked into his belt,

the fingers thick and certain of their place.

I zoom until his face is just a smudge of gray.

The white thread is the only sharp thing left,

swinging in the static of the room

where I’m not standing.