Circleology
             
I'm dicking around here trying to figure out
whether to wash the car
or blow the leaves or
wash the car.

The dogs across the street chase their tails.
From my window I wonder if they will lose
their balance
and slam into the front trees.
I want them to.

Every single day of our lives
we come back to each other before we know it
from the other side of the bathroom
where the steam has not yet crept
to obliterate the body.

At the mirror,
I draw a round face with my pinkie
in the condensation on glass
that is not on fire.
I wonder if the dogs across the way are broken, maybe
an old man has lost his step.

It's true, I hope for quiet every minute of my life
and go so far as to say shut up
when there's no one in the room.
I'm a lunatic. No
I'm not
a lunatic.

Just sometimes, I sit in front of the window
and make imaginary circles in the palms of my hands
with an imaginary pen. I want
to figure out how to bring one end of the line
back to the point where it started
so I can feel
heat.

That way it would be me
in a universe that can make things whole
and I would be it.
Meantime, the dogs outside look funny.
They lay down in the leaves;
they pee on the trees.