The Margin

My hand went down into the dark

seeking the cold glass of the phone,

but I touched the floorboards instead,

gritty with the silt of a year lived in this bed.

There is a graveyard in that narrow gap.

A single sock, stiff as a frozen bird,

and a dead battery furred in gray lint

like a pill that failed to work.

It’s where the small things go

when they’re done being useful.

I pulled my arm back,

empty-handed and coated in the dust

of everything I’ve managed to lose.