is what I get when I follow the instructions on Jade’s post saying,
“Turn to page forty-five of the book nearest you. The first line
describes your sex life.”

The air in the house is turning to smog with the cinders
of burning salmon, and the movement of his arms
as he lifts a towel off the granite and fans the smoke
is the Sphinx we may die before we see. You know
how the world is—scattered and ancient, metal
and sharp, lost like dirt beneath asphalt
where sun and skin can’t find it.

*The title is the first line of Cesar Vallejo’s poem “Ostrich”