October 24th 2021
The days like grains on grains don’t heap
– line removed for use in a different poem
Open onto morning like a blister,
biscuits of light covering either eye
like cucumbers in a cartoon spa, I turn to be
unable to see your blinded face for sun.
The mathematic edges of the calendar
solve into the number of how many towels
we can set to going dry on the bannister,
whether or not the cat’s saliva dropped
like chaos into my coffee, its pattern of heat
coiling into my palms.
If love is not
enough, perhaps it is that every day
we wipe away each other’s gunky sleep
from the ampoule-shaped ducts of our eyes,
then take it in turns to do the same for the cat.