Halflives

Perhaps it's the dust at the cuffs of the walls.
I'm neat but I'm not clean.
                                        Clans.
Family farther and farther. Cabinets
stacked with cans no one moves.
                                                  Dishes
collect on the counter like debt.
                                                Overhead, the bed
bangs, some small boat riding the surf
into pilings.
                 No doubt the water stain
on the ceiling tiles is spreading.
                                                Coffee grounds
and sour milk and orange peels.
                                                Laundry piles.
Rooms, a rot of molecules. At the sink,
sleeves slip down my arms
like a shudder,
                      drown in the slate lake.
I feel for the knives that hide by the drain.

Copyright © 2006 Andrew C. Gottlieb All rights reserved
from Halflives
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission