Of course, the sink is never empty,
or rather: empties, briefly, then is full
again: the one plate; the one mug;
the many spoons. A knife.
Which I sharpen. Which dulls. Outside
the window, night clatters, comes;
the water drained, metal too. Me, too, sunk
in the bed’s shallow mouth, the pit
I’ve worn into the ticking. The night
like a sink: full: trill of air
rushing the spiracle,
swelling the throat pouch;
a silent wing; then scream; wet paw
in the litter, in the brush. Like the night
I sink: small hollow in the throat,
full of water, turgid; full
of metal too. I feel with my paw
the small holes of my body,
the small ponds: the bank beside;
feel with my wing a shallowing cup,
the spoon’s horizon. I swallow.
Knife of the mind. Which I sharpen.
Which I dull. A sword. To myself I say,
choose.
Do I empty.
Am I full.