I am certain that you have forgotten me
as I sit here in the center of this fat, floppy
bed and look out of the window that looks out unto
the pregnant clouds and the thin lines
of road. I occupy the edges of your memory, now:
The distant plop
of a spoon slipping into suds.
I am not
the bubbles that jewel your arm
and fingers, up to the puckered pink
of elbow
when your search
for the slippery
spoon
is complete. I am a faintness
growing fainter

the outline of a sound