Not ready—not ready
for what? Sexy architecture
exposed to the naked

and untrained. To mourn
another death I missed
during my two-year

blackout. To check into a library
hotel. Talk to the dead
for ten days straight

about a dress I might wear. Remember
my dreams again. Or, it is this:
I have put everything down—the bottle,

smokes, the pen I’ve used
to write letters of desperation. It is that
I’m just not ready to go.