seen from outside
the lamplight in the window
of the room it is impossible to prove is empty
—nevertheless, it is empty
-ing
like a stomach, mind,
but faster,
the contents of the day from all their pouches
do disclose the door in
-side this house, a forest or
a labyrinth of memories:
this morning, driving north, sandwiched between pink clouds that streaked the sun
and last evaporating blues of night, riding through a canyon, where a house along the rural highway reaches out an arm of smoke from wood-fire stove, a fragrant hand extended to the road…
some jangling about of pieces
things thought much the same
and loudly so
