It's okay you're not interrupting anything,I'm opening all the windows,sticking in my earbuds and listening to open up the windows and let the bad air out,opening up my handbagand taking everything out,opening my hands and spreading my fingers like the branches of an asterisk,I'm not even sure what I need to admit.Sometimes I stand in the middle of the room,reaching up as if there's something on the top shelf I can only touch with the tips of my fingers,or lifting it up,I don't know if it's better to leave it up thereor take it down.It's not in the way.When I don't want to look at something I put it somewherewhere I won't find it,I mean the only secrets I have are the ones I don't know anything about.I often walk around in my roomor move from room to room,picking things upin order to decide whether to put them down,I haven't actually decided.I'm not sure if I'm not in the mood.I'm not even sure what needs to be neglected,it isn't a weakness,not at all,it reminds me of the paintings of Edouard Vuillard in which women in delicately patterned dressescollapse into the paintedor papered walls,as if they're not even separate from the rooms they're in.They're not in anybody's way.I'm rubbing my eyes in case there's something there, a screen or something that needs to be cleaned,smoothing the undersides of my armsuntil they're really smooth,I think I'll step into the mirrorto see what nobody else is looking at,I don't want you to think I don't care about things because nobody else does.
Copyright © 2019 by Peter Leight
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
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