I keep coming back to this. The apartment spare of furniture, leftovers in the refrigerator, the sound of the couple in the apartment above us rocking their bed all hours of the night, but I can’t with any detail remember what furniture we had, what we ate for dinner, or how we did it. I know for certain that we were young and that I first saw her in the checkout line of the community college bookstore and what started out hopeful ended in ruin. I am writing this at 4 a.m. more than forty years after the fact and wishing I had spent more time on detail.
fingering the contours
of my skull