The box fan clicks twice
then begins its heavy circle.
I sit legs splayed
watching the dust build
in corners I haven’t touched.

I’ve kept every luxury I could,

every envelope they sent
about my many deficits. Not out of shame
but proof. Like maple leaves,
they crackle when I touch them,
hollow as anything. 
Some days not everything needs naming—
some days I survive on breath alone, 
the glass of tea and this whir
of motion that doesn’t go anywhere,
a rhythm too soft to parade itself,
but still: an air,

a rhythm. I pour 

water into a pot, stir,
add salt like I mean it,
watch the water just rise
without it boiling yet. The sky, 
behind blinds,
is either bruised or blooming—
I haven’t decided. Who can?