Remove my body
and the space will close
behind it, the hanging
chad a void that will fill in
like shapes in a coloring book.
It’s not hard to imagine
myself elsewhere.
My patio chair will provide
a conference room
for raindrops. A sparrow
will duck in his black
neck to say hello, the dog shake
a clink out of his collar
in the rain. It’s not hard to imagine
paying the mortgage on some
other house. Maybe there is something
under the figure, as you put it,
some God in the costume
of human flesh. Maybe body
is a conduit, a breathing tube,
and I can trace each breath
back to the patio chair, its lap
full of rainwater, its rough
draft an outline in dry pavement.