You are washing dishes on a Friday night. You are beyond the lives you
could have led. You are only some of what you used to be. You scratch
away and handle. You stare in the cleanliness of clean things. You
cannot relate. What is a life anyway but stripping ourselves of what
we lived? Stripping ourselves downt to some kind of truth in the dark?
Steam rises, you, rubbing, clanking, and again and again. The plates
reflect you perfectly: in halves, in small rings of light, malformed blues.