It’s a conversation
between the doorknob and me
when I stare long
and its glint in fake gold
glances back
as if for a turn
my hand is too lazy to labor.
I’ve now mastered
the parts of the solo window
in my bedroom,
the sill begging for a beer bottle,
the frame like a stage,
the pane that blocks the air,
and the dusty curtain.
The bed for two
still reminds that I’m alone,
a vintage replay
of my past half-naked loneliness
when buoyant, my body
in the calm of the sea,
the sun the glare of the bulb.
I’ve measured the waxed area
of the laminate floor,
long like distance,
the volume of the blanked walls,
an aquarium of solids,
the plaster ceiling,
so vast my fingers can’t reach.
I shouldn’t slide
the screechy door of the closet
to refold the folded,
my craving for textures,
and hang again the already hung
to give the hangers
their meaningful existence.
