I. Pressure
start in midair, say, on a plane
the change in your ears as you descend–the pressure–is the
weight of the air it is laid out in the barometric formula, which is
constant,
unerring, and explains, too, the freezing drizzle
that pelts the taxi's windows on the drive from the airport, the cabby
lamenting the goal-line fumble
that cost his team a spot in the final–they just couldn't
handle the pressure–you in the backseat, shivering, sour-breathed and
damp,
wishing you'd brought an umbrella, whispering under your breath,
just drive, just shut up and drive
II. Force
it was once called the badger game a man would meet a stranger in a
coffee
shop and be offered an envelope of photographs–the man and a woman,
a woman and the man–this man's wife never need know, if certain timely
payments were made your client wants nothing but an end, wishes to
pretend it's as tidy as cutting in on a couple dancing a saraband in Kario or
some
other pulsing city the man in question–his haircut and the knot in his
tie both
too tight–says, there is no evidence to support that claim treats you
like you're the boy who always spoils it for others but his eyes,
litmus blue ruins, confess he is a man who has lain in the wrong bed
for too long the sheets still warm to the husband's palm
III. Release
you spend most of your work hours slouched in your car a thermos of
coffee,
a bottle to piss in, a camera on the passenger seat your boredom is
mute,
unlike your kitchen faucet, which complains in irregular beats
the ice in your glass does not work by inertia, it reaches out cold tendrils
to
gather in the whiskey's heat, much as the mind collects memories (ice is
the
truest archive of the past–consider the soot and seeds at the heart of
retreating
glaciers–we cannot beguile ice) the bartender places a fresh tumbler in
front of you, looks at the man in the corner the ice
clicks against your teeth
you left your offering on his table later he will insist
he was only seeking shelter
