I.

I held one of her hands in mine—not at rest,
what Whitman called a storm of skin.

*

I walked past the clean, empty fireplace to the kitchen,
stopped at the sink, picked up a glass,

     began to scrub—

no brightness, dinner, floor.   Hole,
like a garbage bag

shaken open.   The smell
of vinegar.   My little hunchback

in her small sweater, pointing
to the torn yellow body

of a sponge floating in a clear glass bowl, saying

Good as new—

*

No cube of something, color somewhere,

night of someone.

II.

I throw out plates and teacups, rice, brown sugar, spoons, stiff red jam, plums, blocks of frozen soup—baking pans, a rug, a steel cart, an empty bowl, book cases, the floor—a rice cooker, a wicker fruit basket, nails and wire, thread, masking tape, drawers, the walls—towels, a mirror, two key chains, small pine chairs, cleaning sponges, cans of peas, the roof—I clean the kitchen long after the kitchen is gone.