It is the quiet
The dry tears of absence
The heartfelt, scoured for words
That move nothing closer to nothing
The magnolia wall
Is within touching distance
I remember the bowl of pebbles
The tools of tried & failed reconciliations
Today; wind down the chimney
Work on the printer
The desire, o what desire
To be alone, on ones own
The bookshelves sorted
One hundred and fifty
Volumes of poet’s poetry
Most with a tear for my eye
It is this half-silence
The washing-machine of presence
The close-felt, scoured for clothes
That keep nothing further from nothing
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
