I can look most things dead

on. In the dream, I lose

everyone. The houseplants yellow

in the tub while I run out

of air in the bedroom.

Their stalks wither after

the humidifier sputters after

days of drought. Are they dead?

Or is there more to lose

if I keep letting things go—yellow

to brown to too late to back out

of a bad deal now. Bathroom to bedroom

to bathroom to bedroom.

Don't say I avoid the inevitable after.

I confront my dread.

I eat until my body hangs loose.

The hands in my lap are otherworldly, yellow

in the artificial light. Looking in from out

there, a stranger thinks he's missing out

on warmth—my glowing bedroom

curated for love? Is that what I'm after?

The stranger's vision of the life I've led

in which I still have everything to lose?

The traffic light turns yellow,

and again a car speeds to catch that yellow

before it’s red. A noise comes out

—of my mouth?—or outside my bedroom.

Some commotion after.

See? Life goes on no matter who's dead.

Strangers everywhere lose their lives, I lose

track of days, losses,

leaves, leavings, brown, yellow,

black rot in my tub. I still haven’t gone out.

Someone in China owns this bedroom

I rent. Someone else will occupy it after.

The terms of the contract are never dead.

In the window, always, a vase of fresh-cut yellow flowers.

You tell me what comes after.