priscilla becker

 

WHITE TONE

 

 

I think I prefer now being unloved

and listening for my footsteps in the dark.

 

There was a tree in the yard—

not any more—

whose crooked branch I’d watch.

 

I held a ceremony in which I married

my black dog.

 

There is a certain smell

that overtakes me, for instance

once in a button shop.

 

And then I came to disregard.

 

Also a kind of nakedness

that has to do with words.

 

I made a list

of things I’d like. I tied

a string. The sound as when your foot

breaks through the snow,

that sound was in the house.