on the outside of the glass the world condenses,
the possibilities of refraction coalescing
into browns and yellows and greyscale.
perched on a stack of TIME magazines from 1994,
on a kitchen table with two legs wobbly,
under a window where the blinds
are brittle with age and never opened.

 in the book the pages turn and turn
with page 31 marked with cigarette burns.

 kicked haphazard under the bed,
the tiny legs splayed and bent oddly,
her plastic eyes and plastic mouth
wear the same expression no matter the abuse.
with half her hair gone,
the holes where the thread was wound
show like gaps between stormclouds.

 in the book the words spin and spin
while on page 31 the door is kicked in.

in the corner, slick and silent,
a fat black spider watches the lazy flies.
well-fed, well-rested, and
ready to spin another loop,
the predator cocoons in carnivorous thoughts.
today, across the kitchen cabinets;
tomorrow, beneath the sink. 

in the book the story runs and runs
and on page 31 the speaker's spell is spun.

a hand draped across the edge of the tub,
gracing porcelain with skin
of equal tone and timbre.
the water laps, though the bather is still;
droplets drip, though the steam has spread.
her eyes half-closed, her pulse slows as the water cools.

 in the book the narrator leaps and leaps
while on page 31 the secret will keep.

on the table, a letter, a token,
a gesture with crisp lines and clean edges.
a rejection for a school or a job,
perhaps, or a thirty-day notice
or a summons or receipt.
read once and abandoned,
returning to its original shape.

 in the book the plot whips and winds
and on page 31 the reader divines.

so well established, how useless the chemicals of the brain-- i do not need pleasure or grief, i have no use for anger or lust. all i need is the scent of tobacco on fingertips, the rush of drunken breath behind the curve of my neck. the artificiality is what attracts me, the control and precision of a created high: decision-making, pure and uninhibited. no use even for oxygen in this crowded, close room; you press up on me as i reach for the glass.