like making a wine glass sing,
or it's caked with soap,
residue blasted to dust and fingers
bump like the runway wheels,
knowing either way will be a return
to shelf or rack.
I don't want my trips,
want unyoking,
but I'm not wed to the act
as endurance,
rather the suspense of not knowing
if the washer is filling or emptying
does feel like a hinge that is
lacking once I'm away.
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