Day Three

Day three the ceiling was all I had.

The water glass had left a ring.

I'd read the same paragraph four times.

The words stayed words. Not anything

that meant. I set the book face-down—

pages bent against the blanket's grain.

The tissues had a structure on the nightstand.

The light went yellow, then went plain.

Someone texted. I let it be.

The glass had film along the side.

I thought about getting up for water.

I couldn't decide.

Day six I could read again.

Found the book there on the floor—

I'd knocked it off at some point. Found the page.

I read. A little more.

But three is where I keep returning:

the paragraph I couldn't use.

The way I set the book down gently.

As if I had something to lose.