is nothing and everything pulls you everywhere

that you don't remember anything. not the puddle of black water your dunlop sneakers fall into, not the cold wet between your toes for hours after you had forgotten it ever happened, not the lime green tailshirt popping out of her olive green pants (everything else was in its right place, even the gradation of black in her hair), not the pink flowers of eczema on his arms—i tried to avoid them, but they stayed in my head for a little while, not the pathetic white cotton towel tied around a broken pipe on the men's urinal, not the milisecond wait before the sloan automatic tap washed the dirt and sin off your hands, not the conblocks everywhere under your feet, grey, white, black, the rare red in front of my office, and on their surface more pamors than on a sendang sedayu, not that anyone here would know what i mean by pamor, or sendang sedayu, unless you read him every week, not the surprise moon over suburban rukos' rooftops, the way it makes you feel good about being out there still at 9.31 pm on a damp tuesday night, not the caterpillar of clouds that ran along an invisible branch off the trunk that propped up the moon. not anything.