When matter swells, and heat traps water,
my body and its cycles squeeze between the chair and the bed.
Maybe work on the windowsill?
Maybe lay on my back on carpet filth.
People run, bags fly, empty cans roll by the sidewalk,
and I’m so full—full of everything that can’t be chucked like that.
In the center of things in the same way,
and in the periphery just the same.
Crawling into tender corners,
hiding being the fullest way through which I participate.