Mu Puzzle

Here’s the basket of my

hands. Here’s what’s

inside: spice racks

with old cumin. Furniture

falling apart obstinately,

taste of last night’s

whiskey, invitation to wash

in a dirty bathroom. Say

yes. More coffee, a helping

of nausea, trickle of hot

water too small for two

bodies, crumbs on

the bottoms of my feet.

Here’s the problem:

the puzzle is unsolvable.

The night-light’s dead.

And out there in the dark

your absent son’s toy

dinosaurs; women

who were here before,

expected value of waking

to thin pillows, brilliant

light, words that are

considered, and words

that are ripped from

mouths: I love the way

you smell. Your skin—

I don’t ask much.

Build a system because

it’s time for breakfast;

break it because you want

to win. Heartache

is measured in micromorts

and so, too, is joy.

Here’s the basket

of my sins, my careful

poems. What’s inside

repeats until it’s done.

It’s never done.