Imagine an abandoned labyrinth, bisected, shimmering with lesions. Muddy.

Imagine a photograph pressed into a wet wall. An image develops for about two seconds before someone throws it in the trash, mistaking it (the weak photograph) for packaging.

The photograph blanches then recedes then fizzes, like soda on a stain.

I remember a bone, the swimmer’s turn visible through my own taut skin.

In the socket.

In the photograph.

Yes, like that.

The electricity, which will never be born and which never died, came from somewhere else and then was captured.