Untitled, Lee Krasner, 1948

I need to do
some thinking. I
need to sign up
for something. Include
myself somewhere. To
share, finally, a language.

the untranslatable. I don’t
recognize myself
in photographs. I see
letters, even punctuation,
but I can’t make out
the words. These panic
attacks are killing me.

The heart threatens
to vacate the premises.
All the parts of me,
they don’t quite fit
together the way they
used to.

I can see
you’ve put a lot of
thought into it, Lee Krasner.

You’ve meant it to be
the blueprint for a machine
that won’t run. That won’t
produce the product
for which it was
intended. I can hear
the gears turning low, like
the ones inside my head.

A muted palette. Inscrutable
design. I feel the word,
but I know it’s not there.