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.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.