Where flecks of fabric tangle with your hairs,
Trimmed nails, the dry husks of dead beetles, bottle
Caps flipped into a corner off our beers,
There lies neglect and memory grown mottled

With light and wet air off the river; I,
Stretched out before the open window, watch
Its screen-diced luminescence occupy
The surfaces of mess. Though I can't touch

You now—you're out shelving books to pay the rent—,
The skein of dust before my level eye
Is your self with my own absently blent
In life’s terse record: its sloughed and stubborn sty.