Whitewash is blue-thin,
every untended drop
dragging pigment--
drawn tight as skin under the intended
snap and buzz of fluorescence.
She labels signatures,
leaf falling on leaf,
unruly lines.
When flourish comes undone
a man's name
turns to flatline.
A woman's will break bones.
The archivist works for
a vacuum.
Tinder paper for glass,
crumpled words around
the door jambs--
catalogue, classify, list.
Winter is hard to come by.
A single solid season of thin
white noise.
One must, at all times, keep the humidity low.
Fragile documents will be damaged by damp
conditions.
Her Knuckles crack and bleed,
skin starts to shift and parch
like dunes.
She's filed away.
Lips under L,
tenderly bitten earlobes
tucked in boxes
restricted
until all involved parties
have vanished.
