This next hour is indifferent green, bled across and
gone, never claiming to have been different but still -
an hour to drag through.
Adjacent room, grey sand pools
through the apertures
of a phone call.
Each moment pressing into
itself like a weak pulse.
You’d like to do more
than map the space you take up. Naming the
paths, the synapses, drawing out the shapes
of things as if this is command over them, it’s not.
Walking around like a clenched fist would you
unfurl, fern-like, if approached
by the right syntax? Describe all
the intricacies like
tracing the lace of a tablecloth
spread out under a wide light. In a white
afternoon she asked you to scratch the
wax off old pearls, clean the studs
in silver-dip. You were stunned,
moved, and had nothing at all
to say about it.