Static

The sky is the color of a wet sidewalk.

It’s heavy. It’s a weight

I’m carrying in the back of my neck.

I was looking for the recipe for that soup,

the one with the ginger,

and there it was. Page 112.

The paper is turning silver around the edges.

The heat—no, it is just the time—

is making it curl like it’s trying to hide.

I can't really see the shape anymore.

It’s mostly just grain. A snowy screen

when the cable goes out.

It should be kicking by now.

Instead, it’s just this slip of paper

resting on the counter,

turning into a mirror I don't want to look at.