Day 19 of 30


it was like writing a poem.
it was like situating language,
winging where to punctuate,
wringing parts of myself out,

looking for not an answer
and not a question, but whatever
lies between like the tucked
sheet or throw pillows that

i never throw, because they’re
more than decoration, but
not really for sleeping on.
and whatever weird exercise

is between mop and sweep, but
not dust. and not wash and not
dry, but more in the lifting
of a greasy pot to the faucet.

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