I SORT OF CLEANED THE HOUSE TODAY

it was like writing a poem.

it was like situating language,

winging where to punctuate,

wringing parts of myself out,

looking for not an answer

and not a question, but whatever

lies between like the tucked

sheet or throw pillows that

i never throw, because they’re

more than decoration, but

not really for sleeping on.

and whatever weird exercise

is between mop and sweep, but

not dust. and not wash and not

dry, but more in the lifting

of a greasy pot to the faucet.