the unnamed scuttle back
into the corners
while the named lie still,
designated,
familiar strangers, returned to
like the first paragraph of an unread book.
The unborn, now approaching middle age,
peep from half-ripped wrapping.
The might-have-been lovers,
drift out through their cigarette smoke,
lift up a glass from across the room,
turn away through the door frame.
The lost friend hides her kohl-smeared face,
shakes out long black hair and never calls.
Trace out their names, think how differently
days could have been, or how very much the same.