Everyone is Approximately Everyone Else
Last night I locked the bathroom door
against the empty apartment.
Tonight: who knows.
YOU ARE SO CLEARLY YOURSELF
the ache in my ankle likes to inform
when I’ve had enough of nothing.
And but life’s still there
branded on each mug
that fills my cupboards. Overflowing
half-hearted into the sink.
And I mean eventually
I’ll succumb.
Fall violently in love and have
to make out with everyone
even my tormentors.
The Laundromats. The never-ceasing soup
of life. And but I don’t want to die.
I mean
I’ll just listen to my eyes
which claim I’m mostly made of light.