Cityscapes

me, and listen, and curl myself around my tree. And by hiding, by divesting myself of all distinguishing marks, by going away, by sinking through the floor, by becoming someone else, by concentrating so hard on some object or idea that I cease to be aware of my physical appearance, by distracting everybody else from my physical presence or suffering, by ceasing to exist . . . I feel like I become invisible. But I am here—looking for a sign, listening for you.

I listen to my tree, carefully. I won’t let go of my tree. My tree covers me. Dad, I feel like if I whisper your name, Dad, that you will hear me. I feel like if I whisper very carefully my hope that somewhere out there, somewhere closer to me than I could possibly imagine, is you, then my hope will come true.

I am whispering to you now, Dad. Listen to me: there’s dirt, and grass grows through blacktop, my lot isn’t so bad. My paper suit flaps in wind, my tree is fine though it’s hard to move, upward, anywhere. I prepare a bed on blacktop almost every night, I am ready to take a nap on it. If 250 nails are hammered into my head, then maybe I will be ready to tell you that I remember what your cock felt like in my little hand. I feel sleepy now so listen, listen as if I were the one dead, because I feel like I have been dying since

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