I no longer confuse you
with my love. I understand
all proximity’s approximation;
this thing we have
doesn’t have it in the bag.
I pour the contents into the bath.
I no longer confuse one
leaving for another
except at night, when I might
open the faulty ziploc.
The water heats slowly, cools slowly,
depending on the landlord. I hate
never losing my voice
at that point of the evening, when
I don’t have a bottle to hold.
I’d break a neck
against any edge, all roughage worth
some possible elixir.
I started the day
in a stranger’s ear, asking
for assistance; found the middle way
in a friend’s departure; closed it
hoping to smell Arcata, while that flight
receded. The eucalyptus
dried out months ago, but the salt
still had its way.
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