untitled.

She prefers angles—
sitting at the chair in dim
pub corners where brick meets
mortar. She prefers

drinking beer from small
tumblers when sitting in such
corners, but from cans otherwise.
And then there’s the angles

of her kitchen, too white—
she hangs postcards
where ceiling meets wall
meets wall, writes poetry

on the backs first, adheres
them with sticky tack and
admires the rightness of it all:
the ninety degree paper

edges, the dry wall angles, the
addresses unused and facing
back, unreadable.