And there is the poem.
Dust motes in the Sunday sun
Bring the only quiet
From shoedrops and shoes soon to drop
In the other rooms.
Who can I talk to
Except with you?
There are theories who you are,
There are theories about me, too.
And, though nothing is real, somehow
All I say is true.
I just can't let the day slip through
Without surrendering to it,
Even if it's only
In a costumed note
That withholds more than includes,
The slow and thrown away.
Is there anything at all
You'd like to know?
Nothing is as it seems, and everything
Seems known already.
You are kind to let me repeat
What has never been said.
There is something in that
To make the stillness whole,
And make what is not
Come out in the open,
Before the noise demands replies
That will consume themselves.
Even the stubbornest puzzles
Are eventually put away,
The cruelest understandings
Will be buried in forgiveness.
What becomes of this
That eludes each catch of love?
Is it just that it needs to live
In the dark, without air?
For fear this thing will nullify
Everyone who's out there
But me, and you, the complicit twin.
The phantoms are that large.
