I’m scared to touch the blue bag on my bed
I fold laundry and hot clothes into the drawer a little askew
air cool again under the window socks warm out when they’re up
air flying through the swamp cooler light tasty and full of rain

I made the bed two months passing to sleep
on my beautiful red couch the covija foreign mouth
when I tuck the corners they stay
silence is fuller of space
alive air

I’m scared to touch the blue bag on my bed

my hands shake when I grab the warm hamper
set by the corner for the bag’s straps
my arms are jungle wire like telephone rails
like the bright porch light I have no control of and never stops
I pierce clothes with hangers
the night glows blue sky behind me
the purple bag in the living room
is lighter in the front like it’s supposed to be