by Samson Stilwell

By voice, by camera
by tea lights, by night
by spit across a void 
you say
dark water, such dark water. The note is held so long you forget it is there.
And then we are going about the day. And the kids need to be picked up from school 
but aren’t even born yet. Wandering the house,
Leaving the work desk for water in a dixie cup, forgetting the water
In the dixie cup. One day you come home from work early,
you find nothing 
in bed with your wife. You were never there, she says
nothing lived next door. 
In other stories 
the day is still happening.
The day is still happening. 
I take a walk in the sun. 
I catch a glimpse 
of what it might be like 
being another person. 
The palm folds over 
itself. The horizon halves
another apple, another day
another man. Quick light
moon spike. 
Other residents of this instance
become shadow.
Other residents
hold hands.