A blue ink stain
beneath the nail of the middle

finger is residue
from another conversation

he had
with himself. Or some undressed

rehearsal he wrote
his way out of. A hidden trap

door in the wood floor
a woman used once

to escape his
implacable hunger. Today

it’s purple and he’s careful
to keep the tip on point. His lefty
slur asks:

Do you move in a circle, or swim
in your own lane
when you breathe bilaterally?