The part about cleaning
constantly, cleaning
before leaving, anticipating
the return to clean
is nothing shy of who
will clean when I die
and if I should leave
kitchens and sinks
replete with morsels
abandoned and something
that seems sedentary
like I lived here once
and the crows above
fighting with gulls
and the daffodils
unwattered bamboo shoots
stalk green to brown
will somehow wilt faster
far away, where I can't
quite imagine the way
it might be, after I'm gone
dust born bunnies
will choose the breeze
that best suits
through the open crack
meant to freshen the air
allowing for circulation
through the domestic
organisms will surely
breed out of control
and the germ-fare
fantastic born colonies
will leap and cause sedition
among the fruits
everything will start
the lambic dance
while inanimate
objects will memorize
and provide direction
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