Unmoored Days

The city will swelter later, but now just the light baby-breath morning. Everything has to begin. And this begins with the unmoored days, and I’ve no sense of how water moves except that it comes and goes.

Days made of lint and dust bunnies, rolling around under the sofa without syntax or fabric softener. Things come up. Things get done. On the bus, I sit down beside the gap in the sentence again. It hasn’t showered. I walk this selection of streets not seeing the underlined signs on the corners, not seeing the roof growing over now all ivy and thick bark, shelter and worry. I fall asleep without seeing the ceiling. I’m not getting out of here.

We are white pages and binding lack, we are the bus jostles and quick stops. We are the empty plate on the wide blank table.

They are the distraction boys with the right nose, the right slope of shoulder, the good shoes. This is the itch of all you would lick clean if you could only make it dirty.