October 18, 2022

spill

The comedy at the bedside table, a coffee mug set down in the dark on a not-edge,
and the tumble earthward, toward sheets and a duvet cover, toward the sides
of books, the lower wall under the headboard, toward the fringes of a dark blue rug.
From there, almost predictably, the day has become a series of upendings I keep hoping
to reverse, but of course, the wind’s just not blowing that way. Outside, the trees
look like they’re in a similar spin, branches whipping and whirlpooling, the leaves
at their not-edges clinging. Are they as desperate as I was this morning, running
a washcloth under a lukewarm faucet, then kneeling on the floor to scrub at a stain
I couldn’t erase? Or, having acclimated to their seasonal upheaval, are they, in fact,
in the midst of some artful choreography, waving at the rain as if gleeful for what’s next?