The Tiles are Pink The Tiles are Black, and: —Not Growing

132 STEPHANIE SCHLAIFER THE TILES ARE PINK THE TILES ARE BLACK the tiles are rosy and often there were roses in the nest the rosed commode—the fuzzy seat— the toilet rug that slenders closers to your closets extends itself a ramekin a breadth burnt fish a parlor-herd of slurry I would rather be a clothespin a scent that hunts itself to death how weighty I am still with you why do you keep your hand in stock in cups in tempo of the porcelain a tender hole of slip why do you keep it with you the scent is bitter purser on said doorkeepers said soap do not touch the spigot metal do not touch its mouth 133 —days and won’t you get in— take a bath— the water to the cleanness of my hands indelicate in calcium make bubbles place your lips: wet wood Nanny thread-bare spool exfoliant/astringent /you —get in and with the soda she can clean the shower and her teeth do not remove the ancient landmarks do not wear yourself in dusting why should your bed be taken hand from under try to count them sand as sand the light when it is gone 134 STEPHANIE SCHLAIFER —NOT GROWING it is dark. the time so getting you cannot get in under no dogs— the train yet— there is not even weather there is a reason to early early if you need a reason to get up in the dark The house is split around its oven— a cake there, rising, minutes in no god yet on the television—bands of color all the trees go :sharpening for things on earth are small iron sharpens iron 135 a door turns on its hinges, swaying —she gets up in it the hour you have clocks for ...