The orange of the sun dipped beneath

the trees and buildings.

I craved the road-salt whitening the pavement,

to lick it off. And with my wind-dried,

reddening hands, to touch someone.

Neither desire I’d satisfy, despite one being

plausible & boring.

The sky draped over the city like a jacket;

the jeans I wore five days straight sagged at the knees.

You’re a girl, my mother said, clean your hairbrush.

She said this over the phone, not knowing the exact state

of my hairbrush, but she knew about

my cultivation of small disorders—

scuffed boots, water damage in reread books,

dented cars. Here’s the problem

with the “wanting to touch someone” formulation:

it lacks specificity. Desire is in the details.

The morning I returned home, the rain crosshatched my window.

I lost my gray watch with a bright face in Chicago

and pretended that this meant

I’d find something of equivalent value soon.