by Joanna Gilman Hyde

The Hawk West Desk Window 10:22pm

I was That Ballet Dancer

twirling madly in any psychiatrist’s fantasy

exposing My 101 Split-second Facial Expressions

aimed at an imaginary upper corner Camera —

or was It Imaginary?

in a room of no furnishings

except for one rubber mattress

repeatedly blanketed over

by Me

to grow a garden

of hair & spit

before My Assemblage