From a point of stasis,
from this rocking chair,
all permanence eludes me.
The small white fan oscillates, is
taken aback in its governance.
The calendar, on the wall, though
it’s lacquered gloss lifts and falls
with each sweep of the blades,
remains pinned to June —
the rings of Saturn soothe
in their way, they are
both perfect and porous.
In the kitchen, the coffeepot
ticks, or rather, refuses heat —
as tempered glass ignores
a shatter. But for how long?
For how long this shell?
From the point of stasis,
everything turns and sways,
much like those grey husks
of sea that taunt and roil
above this squat pink house.
The dog is not relaxed,
but paces, slink to slink,
room to room, twitch
to twitch. A woodpecker
pounds the chimney cap.
My frayed robe stinks, and this
— is not becoming.
Image: Hafidh Satyanto on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 