Drag myself up, out, across, up, down, over the face of the day. Iron and rust. The seam, visible, between inside and outside on the decayed Nissen hut where a friend plants tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini. I’m a weight I deadlift over the day. Chicken sandwich. An hour trying to draw the Art Institute from a photograph—a lurid lion in the foreground glowing pale gray and green. The walls watch me closely. Rain. Crying. I get the news from poems—men dying miserably every day, anyway. And women. Pretending to be something I’m not. Pretending I won’t decay. The day.