Spoken in measurement

Everything about the house is fixed
Fixed to its position as if fastened
Move an object
Eventually it returns
— | – You’ve seen that before.
And so the hand replaces it
In this case, back to where it was
And the movement and return is complete
— | – There’s food.
A meal is a measure of time
One in the pale morning light
One in the solidity of midday
Then the ambiguous twilight or the dead of night
Measures of darkness
Clothing removed
Clothing folded, stored, washed and draped over the backs of chairs
Then the front door seen from the exterior when returning
The interior when leaving
One surface weathered by the elements
The other by the friction of to-and-fro
Brushing the hand against the wall
Across the closed doors
Cupboards
The imperfect and rippled glass of the windows
Against the skin of the face and the regular bumps of the spine
— | – I have no reference to describe living with you, it’s outside any frames of comparison.
Then the wine
The tea
Coffee late in the afternoon
Waking up in the AM hours described as small
The suction-like sound of the magnetic seals of the refrigerator tearing away from the metal frame
Cold, firm cheese on the palate
The regular morning rains of Spring on the roof
Cats following each-other down the stairs
— | – I manage never to see you when you leave.
Stare
— | – Never when you arrive.
Exhale
Warm breath across the jaw
— | – For you, I am nothing precise.
Somewhere there is a house on fire
The commotion sounds in the distance through the night
Wake
Telephone
— I think there’s a house on fire.
They already know
The sound of the refrigerator door
The dull clunk as it swings shut
Freezer
Ice
And a glass of liquor
A cube gives a sharp crack
Alcohol swims through the body
Spreading outward from the sternum
Sinking down to catch at the knees, trickling to the feet and toes
— | – This was all so long ago.
Blink
The cat outside in the yard
Pacing slowly from one side to the other
Stopping to stare
Panning the head
Before setting off again