from Letters to Kelly Clarkson

Dear Kelly,

At a cold blue table a horn pinches at the air, its leads, its gestures. I didn’t want to depart from the recording but my lungs had started to feel the effects of television’s unfinished repair. Like my sister’s face on the flute, that greenery, suburban pointillism, I’m not even sure you can read music. I am so tired of pointing, just pointing.