One - Acknowlegement
The spots on my hands tell me when it is.
The books, unreturned to my shelf, tell me how I am pretending.
The numbers I don't look at, also tell a truth.
And the empty pillow. That too.
Two - Collection
I gather the little furniture.
I imbue it with meaning.
I grow smaller to fit in its world,
to rock in a chair, the size of my thumb
to shrink to the size of the story
Three - Destruction
I could freeze this codified image until it cracks.
Leave it outside until it the straight lines go soft.
Flood it down the gutter of the public street,
Break it with an ax, a hammer, a brick, but
burning is best.
Four - Composting
Around my flower, unwatered,
- water- and now ash from a tiny chair
in which I will not grow old.
The first sentence of my next story
is pushing up
green
out of the ground.
and I am listening.
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