If anything can be made into a poem,
like this glass of water,
what about my bedroom, the room in which I sleep,
in a bed, naked, beneath a crumpled blanket,
blue, before a mirror above the dresser, the latter stacked with books?
I remember talking at night to my brother behind the wall.
Fifteen years ago. My twin brother slept where I sleep now.
He slept there until he – we both – went to college.
It’s not my room. Now it is. At least now.