Over Thought

Sanding the edges so they don’t cut into
what slides across them. There is no sound
tonight, but everything is listening carefully.
They twist the dials and cycle through every
pattern they have available until blades
of light cut through the room, sharpened by
the window panes.
She runs her finger over the rings that
spread outward from the center of the tree
stump, and runs the other along the inside of
her thigh. The room is like a microwave
without the buzzing or the greenish light,
and I can’t tell the difference between what
I assume is right and what actually is.
Maybe I’m over thinking it. Maybe I should
just look at something else. Like the girl
by the tree stump, or the cardboard getting
dragged down the street by the traffic.