I.
Do not speak about the night—not this one, not that one. The 
         refrigerator is humming. Be quiet, and listen. It is singing
  about us.
  How we chew on grass and loneliness.
  How it understands.

 

II.
I was once told that blue is the one color that is fickle
for the way it gives in to the will of the day: 
   with weak knees and weaker arms. 
   In you, I imagine the sea, falling towards the ground. I think of you
with a toothbrush in your hand—
two wet knees in the belly of a bathtub—
trying to scrub out the stains from my past.

 

III.
   You do not hear me clip my nails in the shower. I leave
the tap running
while I mumble to the shower curtain.

 

IV.

The machines are our pets. The tornado of clothes in 

   the washer, plucking one thread   

   of your smell out by one. I watch as the storm calms,   

and in a trance, I forget that you are just outside, on our bed.