Already

The airlock wouldn’t open or it wouldn’t
close. We were in it or we were not. We were
dead or alive when you lifted the lid. We
then foraged, we delayed, return so
desirable it was a weight we shunned.
Tinderbox, bracelet, armoire. So much
forgetting that afternoon, the swing, the small birds,
smoke from the trash barrel, my writing. Now where
do you go when you know I know, when
everything is already enough too much.