Why don’t youstand before the doorblack bows on your wristsin one of two identical pairs of shoesthis one with rubber soles for wet daysany cobbler can do thiswhy don’t youpalm frond, breadmold, emerald, seabladder,filing cabinet, verdigris, eau du Nil—this morning I stood before the doorI studied it like a riddlethe riddle was: When did I forget how to open doorsI carry a ring of keys like Bluebeard’s bridebeerbottle, greengage, keylimeit is always tugging down my pocketsexcept when I wear a denim jacket!with little rivetsthat sing like birds in the eyethe keys are looking smaller than they did beforeanother riddleeach one intricate and bafflingI look closer and one bears the profile of the Royal Pavilion in Brightoneven smaller than it did beforewhen i used to go therei wore a half-slip for a skirt and my hair in artful knotsas memory hooks on to memorythe cortex darts with pins and knotsthe doorknob is replaced with a skyknobsomething like the handle on a tankardbut how do you turn a key in a mugor turn the key in the skyof course eventually i shove with my shoulderand tumble into the house to do my choreshow can youwhy don’t youin order to better concentratei decide to buy the milk later in the dayto clear time to write and now all i think about is milkmilk milki crawl all over the house looking for dirty bottlesrubber nipples and plastic collars“like nebuchadnezzar”i set em in the sink to further rotmid-morning sun ticks acrossthe royal pavilion at brightona pier gently rots into the seaand throws off a gas which heats the skywhen i was therenothing but a half slip between me and the pierand, contrariwise, my blackest, heaviest shoes,a pigeon rotted rudely, exposing its chesta fish rots from the head and a bird from the chestquoth the pigeonwho were deadwhat were being diagram’d thereabove the pierthe vampire’s houserose skinny as himself and his brideshouldering twin sonsone of whom would later fall to his deathfrom millstone to millstonewhere the sea grinds the cliffthen they flew off to LAwhy don’t youmove to LAtraipse along a catwalkabove the signthat tells you where you arewash your face in itwhy don’t youwash your dead child’s face in champagnei did wash her face in blondeno more tears baby shampooto release the residue of tapewhen it was too lateI had already learned the scent of her: a shockof alcohol that shook the brainlike priests and goblins shake the pews with censersscrabbling up the aisle towards the altarthere to deposit our eyesbut will we ever arriveevery thirty days ireceive a text from appleurging me to delete the imagesthat eat my memory updelete them, or I willsays the appleI won’ti have my ownpursuitsi have my ownevil routesi learned from reading a burning bookin a burning librarywhile the baby was alive& J sangthe factory is closedlet’s go to veniceill dress you in white denimwith rivets to singi made that last part upje voudraisaller à veniseand i would liketo sing it nowi’m singing it nowfrom the lipof the throat-decaying pieryou can hear itwing into the airbaby’s breathon every sanitized handlook angel:pass over, or don’ti don’t carei’ll just stand here on the thresholdfeel the wind you bear in your ratwingsrinse my hairi can’t find the doori can’t open iti can’t remember how doors workblow the house downeat the doorgreen buckle, green uddergreen that freckles the gravestoneseats the carbon dioxwith green teethchlorophyll endorphinebony greenas weeds in the gutterwave from the second floorwhywhy don’t youclaim every green as yours