the summer rolls up its black tongue: from inside the machine 

The part / that flusters some, that flusters no one.

on the chair shining wet from the rain / still hung a black piece of laundry. 

There’s a kind of transformation / That can happen on any day

Folded back through love / Trying not      to be with but of

between the wardrobe and laundry rack / someone is ironing feathers and planets 

but the cancer / is so available        like so much isn’t—good air and tranquility, / space between sets of particles

That I should originate anything / was intolerable to me, / but I considered it, privately.

The man I loved wanted me in his bed, so I could tell him he was exceptional.