locus classicus

There was snow in my collar and March under
my fingernails.
We walked to the door, he told me
what color my eyes were,
I told them they were blue,
he told me I must be mistaken.
If you overlook things it works--

if you don't do it too much.
All I can tell is what I see,
books on the shelf, a ceramic bowl full of bananas,
a wool sock on the bed.
Sometimes when you say something,

it dangles-- like a loose tooth-- and everyone can see,
and everyone knows where it went wrong
and what shouldn't have been said.
Now there's something always in our bed,

kicking around by our feet,
under your pillow..
a cavity, a wool sock, a hand.
There's always something we won't say--
It's too bad really...
I'll try harder...
I'm sorry...
Life's really about that wool sock,

where it will show up,
who's missing it,
when it last got washed.