A Body in a Room



A body covered in dust in a room covered in dust.

A body with an existence, dark spot on the ground.

A room admitted to itself again.

A body that had studied a room like a book.

A room on its cold knees.


A room traced back to a body and its nail-tough ancestors.

A body shedding. A room in a shed with a chair in it.

A room, for a time being, quarters for a body.

A body of bittersweet sweat, and proud hands.

A room with no inkling of what a body will do next.


A body and a little play of toes in warm socks.

A room measured by breaths.

A body as it tortoised-and-hared its way through a room.

A body an aware one, holding a letter not yet opened.

A body too fast for a room, yet where else to go?


A body of questions in a room of questions.

A body, a room. Who’s in there?

A body breaking-off a thought, a gasp.

A room a breach, a body gone to flowers.

A room joining the cracking limbs of a body.



A room called bastard and its vagrant heart.

A body coursing and room refraining. A room a room

A room many rooms ago, a skipping record.

A body with its skin-toned scars from its vinyl youth.

A room and a body and the music they liked.


A room dedicated to repose, a body to its plumbing.

A body and a room, necking and neck.

A body as it rifled through a room for a piece of paper.

A body holding out, a room with no EXIT sign.

A body fugitive.


A room a dimmer switch for a body.

A body that shared a password with a room (they were that close).

A room a good friend to at least three people, maybe five.

A room and a copy machine flashing all the outside parts of a body.

A room and its sex, a body and its sexes.


A body whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

A room growing into its proverbs and posters.

A body that died for truth, a room that died for beauty.

A room that could answer as easily as sneeze.

A room that had no way of being framed.



A room a mirror, a body in the wings.

A room an endangered habitat.

A body unable to utter a word.

A body of darkness, a room and its razor blade.

A body admitted to itself.


A room of inane refrains, a body of artless rhythms.

A room a sound of soon.

A body and a room, a name touching a name.

A body its first Bonnie, a room shy, high, exalted.

A room in praise of its shadows.


A body flooded in night light, a room whispering.

A body until it had no more thoughts, utterly a body.

A room very long and very deep. A body of soft striped light.

A body and its laughter, a room of soothing sounds.

A room a superposition of times in the laundry in the laundry bin.


A room a body was done-in in.

A body in the ground and a room with its windows open.

A body star westward from the pole, a room illuminated where it burned.

A body of the east that was green, black body of the north, red body of the south,
white body of the west, a room for each.

A room released from any sense of intelligibility.


A body, a brief history of light in a room.

A body if only, a room as if.

Thomas Devaney