How many

How many lines have we lost
in glasses of milk, bums needing wiping,
the wrong amount of rice bubbles,
concentric circles of no/but/no?
How many plots disappeared
by a dream interrupted:
doors opening tearfully on a nightmare,
or just a plastic superhero going off
without warning?
Couplings of words smear
into tired crumbs on the bench,
tangle up with the holy business of getting
out the door with shoes on right feet.
I could have scored out an improbable
or something magnum opus by now,
seen the initial spine of my language
on a bookshop shelf.
But here in the half-dark
I can trace the curve of your cheek
(still babyish) in less than a minute,
and every night it looks
nothing like failure, or regret.