Cleaning Myself Free of Depression


The washcloth’s hinterland
Is a dry right corner-
But splotches of Windex
Saturate most of the cotton,
Tearing like moist velcro
As I pull fingers
Off naked surfaces.
Frills extend like intestines
Oscillating from a translucent touch.

Something about the movement
Should personify possession
But I feel this moment
Is not my own.

When did I give up?

I can’t decide.

What have I gained?

Momentary cleanliness
Circumvented by spontaneous

Tonight I’ll sleep on clean ceramic tiles
Arranged to represent the kitchen floor.

What dirt I leave behind is borrowed.

The sleep is my own.

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