I’d like to be all of them — ever her, possibly you, at times what you see from the couch with your feet on the table and the creaks running up the walls, amplified in the cold — the seconds it took: I count slowly, with deep felt sincerity your reasons, shirt and hair, your poems, hands and motion and the monologues you ran through alone, wet in the shower small truths you planted in blue-lined paper, decorated with stickers and oval heads covered in long ballpoint hair but none of these are as vital as knowing that I don’t know what you mean