a moon, worn as if it had been a shell

I was busy on Facebook, a fly stuck to sticky, and a thousand likes piled up around me. I threw some out, no regrets, and pressed an x and removed the whole stuck sticky. Maya tipped the scale, and anger fought with attachment, my heart beat to the blows. I drove around and through my town, ate two slices of cheese pizza dripping in the box and wiped my mouth on napkins. I bought a pair of huge shoes to fit Sophie's new orthotics, answered last minute questions that the Friend Who Loves Jane Austen asked me about Sophie's medication, argued about Kubrick and Tarantino and art as weapon. Poetry is a Destructive Force, said the poet Wallace Stevens, the insurance salesman who knew. A useless day, I thought, no use for it. And I wanted to peel off my skin and walk, exposed, to better feel.