evening and nothing, yet,
has been written
i relax into nightmarish decay
clothes in the sink, dishes piled,
lunch scattered on the floor
emerging in steam heat
i glean the icicles peeking in
through window, through curtain
blow them a kiss, toss salt
to what end do i tell these stories
which have no plot, no heroine
no one for whom we're rooting
only the soft ache of someone
discovering exactly who (and what)
they are or might be
Ahhh domestic bliss! Kidding. Same here.
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