In my not trash
you are
amidst spam
saved for later
bills, the dishes—
invisible-making things,
we love our cogs
in a rectangle
stuck on our own watersheds
of unavoidable emissions.

One cannot disappear
the particles
of composition,
the components of
what we do not want
to waste time on
but feel we must.

You catch me,
momentarily
unmoving in
the universe’s whirl
stronger than wind
hair still billowing,
enchanted
with molecules
and their placement.