This girl rings someone, makes up stories
about the young woman next door who
recently killed herself. Then she talks
about herself again. “Not Sam,” she says.
“I don’t mind crying if it makes him feel
special.” The person on the other line laughs.
Forced laughter. Not detectable over the phone.

This girl collects shipwrecks and coffee mugs,
green bottles and bone folders–things which
cannot be inherited. Some nights she dissects
tomorrows whose innards are not yet fully
formed. Here’s a movie about her, about us.
It is the smut we watch quietly through
a spy hole on our doors when every one is asleep.