We are leaving in the morning.

I can feel the press of memory
in the curve of a downward
fold, behind a torn up receipt just
next to the jut of new
roller handles. I feel it

in the coconut drink the park
cafeteria ran out of this afternoon.
The açai you thought I wouldn’t like.
How many unfinished days
are there left scratched into places
tipping over the ends of old maps?

You hand me a snack box (for tomorrow);
tell me to go to bed.
I am afraid Today will spill out
through my yawning–
from my head to the pillow
until there is nothing left, only

our Unfinished set aside for tomorrow
and all the packing we have left to do.