If a Butterfly Flaps its Wings

Somewhere in the world, a body goes
through the same motions I make:

but the water I cup in my hands
when I turn on the tap

never washes over her hands, never
touches the skin of his face. The crust

of toast I put in my mouth never grazes
the bridge of her teeth, never tumbles

down the dry well of his throat. I slide
my feet into their two leather coffins,

my arms into bright cotton casings;
but somewhere in the world, the cold

wraps around her throat, the rain
lashes his limbs. How can the earth

have so many rooms and so little
space? Outside our windows,

gulls lift their dusty wings; their
shadows skim across our walls.


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