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                                                           My latest therapy
has been to watch Vertigo over and over and try to fall in love
with Midge instead of Madeleine: available Midge, dependable
          Midge.

Here on vacation, I don’t trust the amenities—
not the white beachfront hotel, not the ocean’s hush, least of all the apparent
          stillness.

          The blue clarifies: my life is a cough that edges forward.

          From oak racks towels hang pure
white, sporting tiny hotel monograms—they are not to be
trusted; lemon-scented concierge

with foreheads buffed to faux-faux-copper sheens;

                                   waves so finely wrought
                    they must have logos at their bases—none to be
                              trusted.

A bulb was missing from the bedside lamp; I called down
          so as not to feel

                                     cheated.

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