Eye-drops to look clearly
through the window;

all sorts of keys
because bespectacled irises
cannot be relied upon,

neither can the dry, fading
fingerprints—white petroleum jelly
for the hands.

Ketoconazole shampoo,
without which the hair becomes
the crumbling night sky—dust
from shooting stars falling
on the shoulders,

dictionary to spell “ketoconazole,”
mind syrup to recall the alphabet,

and muscle relaxant for stretching
just too far.

The little settee is neat again,
tidy, awash of clutter,
like earth’s future,
our future.


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