Read the previous poem Push onward to the next poem thinking yourself into sleeping on the kitchen floor

have you tried to pin it down like this?
not that you can see what I am talking about
I should draw it

the bedrock looks like lace dipped in gray paint
the buckets lining the path to the rows of bricks
covered in white sheets, the scissors cut them easily
and the red of the wall comes off on your fingers
like a chalk and you run it down your arm

hear noises no description
maybe the sound of tin in the microwave
green sparks on plastic
the hum of what's melting

the stove as seen from the floor
looks like the side of a hospital
I imagine myself a window
getting smaller not a problem