The neighbors move 

in and out so fast and you never see
their faces. It is morning
and I hear bumping and
cursing in the dark. I think of you
from my apartment, a museum
of small sadnesses: motes of dust
a reliquary of the people 
you have been. Filled with
bits of tobacco and their names
like smoke, like strikes–
beat against the kettledrum
of your body.