I have a running list of postcards to send. 
The heat has stolen all the fiction out from me. 
It’s replaced it with compulsive inanity,
The urge to spill hollow words on the backs of photographs 
The backs of watercolors. 
I went to the grocery today. I went to the hawker. 
I’m on my porch. I ate. I worked. I went to the hawker. 
[Evil cannot find me here.][Evil cannot find me here] I do not collect talismans
To ward off the things that follow me at night. 
I went to work. I ate. Cold is an invention:
In the office, in the taxi,
Spilling from the [fridge][home] when I stand
Blinking into the artifice light 
When it's two in the morning 
And I still can't sleep