the room where you sit and think about it
Day’s up and on the shelf. Books too.
Now night, revision of the one-act.
One-room cabin in the woods
that so-and-so builds,
patient, over a long growing season.
You say Who are you? now with doors open,
wind rising, stalks not even waving.
Can’t recognize a face;
footsteps off the porch change, twist so
even the weeds get restless.
Now it’s not raining, because
you have to worry about that nightgown.
Swimming in the creek? as prelude to
Here, lets help with those wet things.
Come, catch death.
You clear the table so it slides easy
down-wall, under the window.