We keep track of what we bore, as if the boring into is
the holes we leave by boring.
It makes me feel like paper without the delicate.

It is of the utmost importance that I do not make you the places that I am likely not to go to, like I make the city stairs, rope ladders, dull rain and a dull breeze.

We talk about thunderstorms.
I wonder if you smell like anything, like dirty sleep
like I do, or excitement like the dull rain,
your hypothetical childhood.

Enormous ears navigate my enormous head like a globe,
with charts and tools. I sense
you in the dark.

I am the magnifier. The leaves
with small holes
bored in them.
You keep this stupid, difficult life
and now I just

I wonder if I’d offend
for being so simple,
for just being a person.