This is the clock I refuse to set.
This is the room now my temple, where wood still snaps,
circulation and gravity still apply.
These are the neighbors who complain silently,
begrudgingly in the lot amidst shards of headlights and bottlecaps.
This is my compliment to white noise, to television
feeding back, whirring dishwashers,
basement laundry, low humming fluorescence.
This is the house that no one visits, echoes of steps on maple
where, in the future, trumpets may blare
--but not today.
These are the numbers adding up to your voice
already gone. I knew this and feel no different.
This is the cold day of the week, the hyphen between
parasitic humidity, phenomenal heat, without libations
This is the prompt to act, the call to meaningless action, or
perhaps nothing lacks meaning. To improve, to restate:
directionless, desperate, hopeful--
the difference I would not know.
These are the small conversations which actually complete
a much larger conversation which has been going on
far longer than this page will allow me to record.
This is my answer to all the unasked questions
given with measured and elusive looks,
which may free us from ourselves
or buy coffee in the morning
(comment on this poem)