After Richard Pasquarelli’s Disturbance No. 2 Enough now. Let the open drawer be just itself, gray as any summer in a grandmother’s garden. You might notice its displacement rendered in shadow, see the handle as an oxygen tank’s edge, or the rim of glasses left on a kitchen’s salted floor. It is neither. It is not the cupboard that, manic from his own whiskey-ed light, S— threw open to bait his mother’s fear. It is not your hesitance to use his name. If you could empty the drawer there would be only wall and chickweed. No wheelchair or ocean wave, no one-handed man hiding vodka behind the toilet. No small cruelties to spread in the corner shop. The Polaroids would be white as a bedroom door, the music something simple, unremarkable as your mother answering the phone, oh God she said, oh God.