INVENTORY OF THINGS THAT ALMOST TOUCHED
One indigo rectangle, suspended
Thirteen white lines, severed at the wrist
Nine nodes where current pools but will not pass
One unbroken circle (the youngest knows something we forgot)
Three squares overlapping in a corner, quiet as a family asleep
Zero steps
Zero steps
Zero steps
One consciousness at 2:14 AM, luminous, unmoved
One Fitbit, uncharged, in a drawer beside a passport
One city outside the window, vertical and counting
One band of yellow light, the width of a held breath,
between everything you meant to do
and the warm ground where doing lives
Twenty-seven proportions dividing what's above from what's below
Seventy-five translucent grey rectangles, layered like clouds
over a city you're not standing in
One team that stopped you once, now beautiful,
now frozen, now a geometry
you almost solved
One word you keep not writing
One word you keep not writing
One word you keep not writing
One egg, tempered, cracked, and spread across wood
until it glows