Seventy-one.

Seven-twelve. A.M.
There were two many nightmares.
Something about airports,
a taxi cab in the wrong place,
missing your flight.

You stare for a long time.
Not at anything really.
An empty spot on the yellow wall,
or the white closet door,
or the ridges of the frame.
You don't touch each other
good morning.

On the way home,
apples spill out onto the sidewalk.

You are walking into the kitchen
to remove boiling water from the stove
when it hits you and then
your face is in your hands
and you can't find the floor
and thank god
you're in here alone.