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.