... having been breathed out

His face knotted up, as she
I
reflected in his wide eyes
: some scooped-out, grasping thing.

Had he stared?

Had he slept?

past the front desk, through the empty room
It was so simple.

—accidental poetry courtesy of A hundred hours

When I’m editing in Gdocs at work an undisclosed computer without access to Scrivener, I sometimes cut & paste snippets out of my doc and into an email draft, in case I want them for later. I just opened up the email I use for that and discovered this little poem, exactly as it appears above. Very Cornelia Parker: art made from the stuff you throw away.