I’ve got this intuition for the movement of time.

I fold shirts into squares, palms smooth
rising kinks. Fill the closet,
the wardrobe. The chore unlatches hours

from their docks. Soon the windows
darken, the fridge hums.
Beyond the bedroom, Seoul, Miami,

the Sunsphere—everything redshifts.
Expansion is measurable
only in the higher dimensions we can’t feel—

all ultraviolets, aurora borealis,
the capitol building
white as raw glass. I’m sure of

the orbits that brought me to this moment.