This was written in a friend’s apartment in Pittsburgh, in the winter, first thing in the morning. It was published in Wilderness House Literary Review last year.
WHAT YOUR APARTMENT SAID
What can we know of each other’s lives?
Sometimes little, sometimes much.
Still, the windows are not talking
and the dried lavender sits quietly.
What makes an elevated moment?
To unplug from the machine.
To unexpectedly become your own master.
To know the apple in the bowl is fine how it is.
In one direction pass fingers of light-
in the other, a rainshadow.
In all directions, the breath and the life-
in all directions, nothing.
Colored silks of morning fall on brick and metal,
drape themselves over glass and wood.
These winter trees are glad to see it,
and I am glad to see it.
My two entwined giraffes,
their slender necks full of secrets,
are glad to see it.