wives don’t age. It will be 400 
years, and we’ll be here, 
hands folded at the window. 

Not temple 
but charred cave: ash. 
A charcoal rubbing 
of a house, 

all those appliances and we: 
abstract and midcentury: 
manufactured. 

The house of the future 
is museum-quality moments.
A 100-unit vial of Botox.

How long and tight 
we still stretch it: a dollar, 
a room, this life.
Dear worm.

Dear computer, 
we can look so long 
into glass, we’ll 
become anything—