The next-door dog is barking in early evening.
What is this gesture? I hide behind the bins
I’m putting out. I wish to stay in it. Not wanting to leave this
floating scene, the day is young, airy, light, the moon has
mounted for hours. And you, you have been sick a while.
The ceiling fan is broken. You have crossed out
all the passages, the spaces, lying in this bed.
Every week passes in its lower case.
Nothing wants to listen to anyone’s sympathies. But I’m
asking to enter here, see what resides inside gazing-out.
I’ll let the winds swallow my words—rough nails,
clipping in night. The sky always seems face-down.
Its whole page is overturned. How hard it is to answer
it, I look at you, & look at you, & wonder where you are.