Exulting in our new washing machine,
which like poetry is ambiguous about
how much you can finally shove in.
Even earlier, eating preserved lemon slices,
read in bed and slope in my shirt,
under exquisitely clean sheets.
Mary says that is the fondest landscape
when you’re there in bed with me and
I say oh yeah well here’s a little earthquake,
here’s a little mess.
And there’s too many socks
they spill on the floor and they all make
mystical assertions you’d think they’d float
by themselves but all they evidence
is our short attention spans
and the amount of clothes to fold
while the washing machine
whirs and chirps like the dialtones
murmuring out of European telephones.