Bathrooms are the best locale.
All that waste and water and getting clean.
Or trains. The nearly equal passengers.
A phone rings in the kitchen but no one picks it up.
Milk goes bad at room temp. You don’t check your email anymore.
Could only scrawl a message: “I____you
with all my harm.” Each day stacked in the closet. Folded, white—
Why can’t I snap the wishbone, learn to tolerate the chilly floors?
If breath by breath I reckon, if I am to approximate myself—
(This, then that, then this again.
Stutter, step, a step.)
Like that woman in the corner seat. I can’t tell if she’s sleeping
or in pain.
If you won’t, then count my leavings.
Bright amnesiac instance,
little red thread on my jeans.