I’m having this recurring dream
of rotting strawberries
too sour to save
(I didn’t eat them soon enough
my fault,
my fault)
it was chilly on my bike ride home
I rode alone
in high gear up the hill—
almost there, never here
almost home—
it’s nearly october
I feel older now that I have to
rotate the dish towels
when they get dirty
(usually once a week)
I am cold in the house,
I am always cold
I am
I am
not really sure who I am
—still— there’s a peach
on my windowsill,
almost ripe