You say evil is such an old word
but with the same haste
it asserts itself in the scurrying
selfishness of my room, and in the way
Phil’s eyes glaze over as Molly tries
to speak with him

It is evil that we are bored
by our own anger, and that we are
bored by our boring sadness
I’m sitting on a rug facing a window at
four thirty in the afternoon
the sun is setting (lord the earth whirs
on a killer slant)
I’m thinking of all the people in this house
becoming ooze, sometimes stretching out
to touch, always oozing, and this
being our only way to communicate.
we might make beads from our
unnecessary teeth

You and I write poetry, not because
we are missing limbs, but because
we are worried. I write poetry because
I am worried.
I worry that the beads will fall from your wrist
I worry more that we’ll stop finding reasons
to hang them from the walls

I ask you why you still speak to me:
you say you’re grateful for the way my body
does not betray my anxiety
that I am clear in my cares
you are light falling into a gorge
for a few hours each day.
we sit here, in possession of our limbs
crying like druids over bare walls
bare wrists
bared teeth
beauty beating only
in our brains