I need to bleach the toilet,
she says after making love
in their shack, windows down and
door closed. Something about the smell.
In July, a door, once closed,
pluperfect with containment,
fights any chance-opening.
Wind, swelled with tiny rain-eggs,
howls for six blocks, empty, meets
the Ganges in the end. I
need to cleanse the toilet, she
says and does not move an inch.