Stacy Blair: from P.F.S. Post


Blonde locks jut out over the tops of pigtails,
bleached beach/sand color by the sun.
Time's short between this photograph and my regard.
Picture: no flower lays or shoes, just
young grass hips. She is, I am, we were,
very young. The entire page of this album
flanks history; under my mind, another helpless
time explosion. I was, we were, are,
naked newborns, as our little limbs on film.


6: 30 a.m. is when my heater keels over;
dried up somehow from the ice storm
which punctuated the night's prose on my

attic windows. This is where I live: the attic.
By 9 a.m. it's all slush, and my
furnace is hot and wet again. Cold

shower: I need one- present tense
of course. I will not stop moving
and wriggle a bit under covers,

twisting my body up in the blankets
like a fork in spaghetti. Three of them:
not forks, blankets. Three second-hand

covers collected and collect
hair and skin samples from their human
times: past, present, future.

Who knows how many have
come before me, but I'll burn
this when I'm done. Maybe then, I'll

light a match to my own epidermis.