I've never moved with such anxious precision,
like I'm holding a moth cupped in my hands
and trying unlatch the door with my knee,
careful for myself, the moth.
There will still be days like this:
when I'm scrolling through vacuum cleaners,
kicking laundry round.
Seems likely now there will be many more,
when I'm moving tiles around
the bedroom ceiling
as tasks appear and are
locked with like,
so that if a row of them forms,
they disappear.
I like how the poem juxtaposes active and passive body movements - the acrobatics of saving a moth, the calm of scrolling, the work of tiling, and the mindlessness of a matching game.
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