My house is in the woods,
it creaks and listens.

I have my rituals
and an old Transit van.

You could slice the silences here.
Sometimes I go out after dark.

I had a wife once
but she’s not coming back.

There is a girl on the checkout,
her name badge says ‘Alison’.

Alison has a freckle near her right breast—
there are probably more.

The store closes at ten.
Two cameras watch the car park.

The new set of knives is in the shed
with the ropes. I bought them last week.

Alison had to scan them—one by one.
Her freckle moved with her skin.

I asked if it was real but she didn’t answer.
I like freckles.

Times they can be as big as nipples,
times they can come away in your hand.