Counting Time through Speedposts Never Sent but Whispered to the Tubelight

Do I contain 
in a litre of your thought
when you take the stairs
and jolt down
to reach the lane?

Glass burning in the furnace
holes in bras and underwears 
which fly or dry in the wind
could they tune me?

Could the child sleep-talking downstairs
push me to vacuum under the bed
to cooked kitchens
and secret burrows?

And could owls and bats arguing
about who is more sleepless,
alive bodies already living
posthumously
deflect me
and fill me into you
just like the way you sense your dry skin
or the folds of your sleeves?