Remnants

The empty glass and tissue box

discarded on the carpet.

The towel, used twice, slung

over the chair;

the ripe wastepaper basket.

I've hidden that room's half

all week, I keep my head down

sleep on the wrong side.

Moving things not

part of me seems not right

when enough of my own dust

has yet to settle. I stay

silent, a crouched spider

and it falls on me, too

the dew of my crawlspace.

That moment; I'll feel it

hot in the ears, the snapped band

beckoning

back to belongings

to the waking, the brushing off

of downed filaments.

I'll spin around

confront your foreign bodies

awaiting excision;

I'll stare into the whites of your

       t h i n g l e s s n e s s.