Waking up two hours behind to a quality of weirdness.
C's alarm not having gone off, the two of us sleeping through
loud drilling, scraping, and banging noises just outside our window.
An unsettled ship-like feeling to things. Sea legs. Rations.
Measurements and fittings and huge spools of ribbon everywhere.
It's near-kite weather. Or just, I'm moving in circles on my day
off, trying to work up momentum to take off out of the apartment.
All of us curators in private museums of loss. Wait,
see? Even there. I meant sloth and wrote loss.