First, the pillows and pillowcases

tossed in the dryer with a washrag

soaked in vinegar. Then baseboards,

your hair (how I long to use the word tendrils)

matted against. Evidence. You were here.

Weeks ago, a light burned out,

and when I unscrewed it, the bulb

broke in my hand, the metal base still

lodged in its socket. The lint trap, the slow

drain, the crawlspace filled with chatter:

I have been doing with minutes

piecemeal, caterwauls, the juxtapose

at the end of the world. It is all

I want out of life to pry that crayon

from between the very small gap

between the floorboards that join

the kitchen and the living room.

And honey, there's you. Except

you're done. I remember how easily

I came in your hands, a slew

of hide and walnuts. Like a good

long lunch. Like the end.