carnival mirrors

I can't count raindrops anymore.
I get lost between number fifteen and twenty-four.
that is when I forget what came last.
every moist reminder a prelude;
my wet hair a vignette.
kitchen noises talking at the table,
every word is a fragment.
their punctuation is excessive.
our back door is the front
and I unlatch looking into the street.
I see you left me a note.
everything is crossed out with an orange pen.
I leave it hanging by a punched hole.
the neighbors are curious.