02: Dirt

There is dirt here. I do not want

this room - so soft, woolen,

look what his hands have done: coiled blankets -

Take the telling pictures, the old chair, whispering grass,

the dim colors and dreams,

the flavor of my mouth,

open upon him.

What life lives on my surface, swims me? To the tip,

this bed was old and cranky,

we must have been slow. To finish

for the quiet outside

souls listen and watch and we must have been through to the end.

All of this must have been done, then gone for

what lives must live through; I will not ask after, or

speak a misunderstanding of what happened

         between here

and the door