Everyday. Everynight. Every.
Wouldn’t They be better without the bother of you?
She flees from Them, climbing. To the oaks.
To the blue, the hawk. The wind, sings.
Unload here, in the mud. Create a little life.
Here, there is enough space to exist.
The hermit on the hill retires in communion.
Yes, Someday. But for now she descends,
back to the collective alone.
Walking him to the door, everyday. Kissing
goodbye, laying out the pressed shirt, listening
for the engine in the driveway, cooking
spiced minestrone with the white beans.
Unwashed dishes. Unmowed lawn.
Unbinned trashed. Unemptied litter.
Unstroked hair. Unnoticed heart.
Who places visit?
Where movies like?
When positions opine?
How foods devour?
The hospital nights on the fold-out chair.
The Rain Cannot Reach Through Two Thousand Years