Here’s our kingdom bordered by four walls, screen
doors, framed windows: open a random drawer to count

a wealth of mismatched spoons, tins half-filled with
tea, chipped porcelain. In every room, small machines

that need to be started and stopped, fed clothes or food,
water, dirt. Through the south-facing window, some mornings,

a gathering of crows in drab coats— Unlike them, we
do not fly away. We stay and press our forms into

the furniture; we pour the milk into the glass
and set the clocks. We say each other’s names.

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