Annelyse Gelman BODY WITH NO WINDOWS too busy dying to notice you are barely breathing your blood blanched you think like a child who has seen a ghost facedown in crabgrass sunburn worming your shoulders the feeling that your body belongs to you is not a feeling you think until it is not felt your face buried in the soil at the base of the oak seedling squandering itself in shade you think is a tree the opposite of a book or the same as the book you love books you think you are frostbitten with love as the day passes like all days without permission burying you in its soil you think you do not have thoughts thoughts merely happen to you like weather or pain hand in your hand blistered you walk with yourself you think into the dark fuselage the dark needling the dark your skin and you wait to be carried from what you cannot remember to what you cannot foresee blindly blindly and in the dark just like you traveled while you were still alive