When we build a corner
with our eyes, the light dims

near the meeting point
of the walls. The shadows

reiterate the meaning there.
What is it

to only exist when darkened. What is it
to assert one’s existence

in the proving
of another. Shadows are void

of light, and yet
in those crevices,

worlds are built. There is depth
and a clarity

to what is being asserted. When I lived
in New York, I played a game.

I’d cruise down 5th in a taxi
and find the most compact spaces

for human fitting. I’d imagine
my body folded in a trash can,

knotted inside a fruit stand, numb
in a bodega window. It was all about

figuring out the proportions
to perfectly transfigure myself

into a pothole. It was all about
the magic of the disappearing act,

the lucency of being one
with something mediocre. Why

I’d love to be something dormant
on the street, something stray

and something controlled
by the whim of the wind. Like

a plastic bag, like a blow-up doll, my
pale tits streaking red through traffic,

my plastic arms flailing a cab down,
my incoherent body muddled

in the foreground. I want
to be the reason for the trash can,

the reasonable explanation
for the debris, the assertion

of the news stand. Let me lay
and assert, let me be for another. Let

me shine through the ignoramus something
and through it, I’ll be something, some

trash or stand or corner, anything
will work. I’ll be small and quiet.
All will dim around me.