Even the hand soap is discolored, hardened and incapable of foam―
how swift and quiet is a week souring.
The coconut oil in the jar, viscous in warm January,
bears mold colonies beneath its glimmer,
grey, bluish clusters like galena in the bedrock.
There are many more corners in this square of an apartment.
Small flowers survive on so little water,
each persistent as a month-old bruise.
If I make myself smaller, the rest of this space for two will grow
until it’s an idea I’ll eventually let slip.
Negligence, too, is bliss, an elegant form of not loving.
What lights out there did I miss when I was waiting
on that street, by that lamppost, for you, your whim
in a black sweater, who might or might not return?
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Marco Yan is a Hong Kong-born poet, who holds an MFA from New York University. His poems appear in The Arkansas International, The Pinch, Diode, among other places. He currently lives in Hong Kong.