The sky is full of bleating lambs
which bob above us. The rains flood
our apartment. Here no word exists
for pail no word for help.
You say I don't, I don't—
your mouth keeps moving
long after the sound stops.
There's no kindness to you now.
A small patch of light defines
your body like a plate-glass window.
I say, How can anyone not know
how to fold toothpaste?
I come to love only the night
and sounds of the orbiting lambs.