in the dining hall, 1:30 am,
i drink apple juice and am suddenly
so angry at myself
(for weather mourning, sleeping parallel
a body i haven't learned, kissing fireflies
and stealing extra nights to blow my nose)
in a way
no cleaning will rinse, no fixing will pick
out of my easy, silk,
weeks-long muddling.


there's a process and it goes meeting, attraction, sex,
sweats in the night, shared water, revival history of ex,
the moment their tracings mean more than physicality,
the moment one of you oversteps the finespun egality.


consolation is steps with your boots when the ground is frozen,
being glad for diseases you never will have.