The box in Brooklyn is the box in Houston is the box in Barcelona.
You fool with my contents to the same result: my jump rope frayed,
my yo-yo tangled, my rubber balls jammed into the cracks of walls.
At times, our hearts are cheap metal noisemakers, sex a small brass
key; I can’t help but think we’ve found the only wrong way to light
the match, the wrong way to cork the bottle. Your fluxkit is filled
with such misunderstandings—tops unspun and ornaments unhung,
ball bearings abandoned before they could be rolled. Your translation
of chess piece is different than mine; your wrench of the music box
more unyielding. In our bedroom gallery, unread instructions read:
Tip the black domino. Doppelgänger that I am, I tip the black domino.