Reads Backward to Avoid Endings

The heated blanket (felt-ish), a tall man sitting cross-legged, found cotton-blue ribbons between cushions: all not mine. These should be: the records my father's left.

We live in rooms filled with things that collect dust Mother why am I not also a bouy?
For the words thumping like tiny, irregular heartbeats beneath my fingertips, I think of
capillaries bursting like seams, like blood bugs from the new old sofa.

You are a picture frame
that i keep in the littlest denim pocket of my not wearable jeans in the closet. If I

could soak a space up into my pores and take it
with me into the next room, I would never fear leaving

or

abscond the vitamin in the upstairs bathroom, lodged between the vent
grates, the kind of thing small brotherfingers do without worry that:
wouldn't the cockroaches miss it, the lingering scent of mineral orange in winter,
in wall cavities.