In this July

I am with hope we can move on
but to where-
the place with the thrown out
never-to-be-had-baby
and the bath water
soapy and reused to wash my hair?
to the food origins of the greasy fingerprints
on the glass sitting half full on my tall dresser?
to the itching confines of my wrist
bound and immobolized, an innocent victim
of my battered elbow?
let's move on to the place
where there is no further analysis-
where we are like January,
where we are upright
to today's scrutiny.