dirt collecting in all the corners where dirt
goes unnoticed with hair sloughing hot off the pet
names panting about the room for dinner lapping up
dirt because poems are like memories are like dirt
because memories get written into corners
and a room has way more corners than a person
realizes like we used to be a corner in this room
and at our intersect there was this couplet not
a couplet but more like an idea of ourselves trapped
inside a couplet like a housefly trapped between glass
and a curtain don’t you see how glass rhymes with curtain
go ahead tell me it doesn’t tell me once but not anymore
and tell me a couplet can’t be a corner in a room you’ve been
with me where now i hold the lines so together they sing
Image credit: Library of Congress
