Evening Poem 2.1

By halves you pitch yourself
forward: new drinking glasses,
scuttle the sheets, now reticence.

Tonight it is in the numbers.
Months. Back drafts.
Panes of glass he touched.
One. A child. And then
the uncountable less and more,

like lampblack, our incontinent
sky, the shuffling of a pair
of leaves. If tomorrow
gets here, it can't be
like this. It must by

full throttle. Whole mountains
of laundry thrown down
the furnace. A door
slammed. A rage of mosquitoes
killed with hairspray.

Or just change the locks.