And why (such questions) when
vague inside an empty room
we cannot live with such plump
possibility as to leave it just
as it is — matless and without
regard, shapeless in its vacancy,
shorn as if ever sharp, warped
by a whisper and tuned
to the breadth of a footfall.
How many coats or curtains,
how many portraits hung, some
whose author snapped
and strode away — how many
cushions and comforts, how
many small gray hands must stain
the lightswitch before we fill
this room with the mute
certainties of home.
And who, when these walls
fall away and these joists
no longer hold you (I), when
the ceiling in all its right
flies off and leaves you (I)
clattered among the hovering
clocks and spineless books,
brittle as the cup that warms
your palms — will not also be
dismantled.
Image: David Hofmann on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 