The silent nightly flow of glass,
clothes scented of smoke and coffee,
the jingling damning weight of needless keys,
spitting blood into the basin,
cheeks pierced while chewing gum.
Fixtures coated with a patina of incidence,
lamplight and running water and creases
feet scuffed into the green carpet,
boot-prints leading away into the dark.
This thrift of elements amounts to such bounty,
flecks of dust buffeted by the noisy sun.
The press of emptiness brushing my flesh,
walking down the long hallway
fingers dangling, drifting over the floor.
This face meant for mirrors--
the egg thus the chicken,
the roof therefore the rain.
Stepping kindling dry beneath a cover of clouds,
the self a banquet of greasy declaratives,
this heady alchemy, this confluence of scars.
Looking to the sky to see what light falls,
wondering what stillness can carry such an ocean,
how a river could snuff out the stars.