Came home from work and washed my hands, poured the last of the white wine. The January bugs are back, gray and plain, looking in at me sideways. A flock of birds like playing cards shuffled, then rearranged. There must be a name for that look we have, going into work or coming home: trying to distance ourselves, separate the two. One is building up, the other broken down. I got under a blanket and tried to empty myself, to make room for something new, but nothing came.