nights dot her face; this has been one. Nights around her nose and mouth. Red waves thru them. Night making eggs and blueberry waffles is. Night spilling water on the table. For no reason. They were in a cafe, their friends there.  She called from everywhere she was. She threw the water. Night home. What afterwards got smaller. She would stretch her legs and rub her muscles, feeling untied, perhaps the way an animal feels. Or perhaps the very opposite, she considered. The sounds from the refrigerator seemed pieces of a thought, half-resolved, though firmly connected to this idea. A bureau, a table. Things built inside a person to keep them up. Some other night she puts lotion on the ringworm spreading on her shins. Or badly mends a quilt. VCR head cleaner. The microwave. Here she is kissed across the bangs. Her manner made soft. It could be as simple as handing her a key, the next night she gives it back. Out of hair and scarves.  A bathroom mirror. Inside small blue drawers.