I am sweeping the kitchen clean of tens of thousands
of tiny corpses. I am sleeping in the bathtub and the water
is overflowing, you are chopping zucchini, red peppers,
green onions. It is your turn to make breakfast, it is my turn
to make breakfast, the kitchen needs a fresh coat of paint, you put
fans in every window and one on the dresser. We are eating ice cream
sundaes in bed. I part my hair, part my lips and unfurl myself
in the space between a tongue and September. You & I
are reaching for our former life, somewhere on a front porch
swing, reaching for the falling knives. I am counting the bones
in our bed like cold days in November, I am burying sorrow,
half dead, in the backyard. The left side of the bed / yours.
The sharper edge of the blade / mine. Each time we sleep,
we are dreaming, of empty hands and clean kitchens, each
time we wake up, we lie, halfway between dreaming and leaving.

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