enters her ear or eye that doesn't exit soon
So that the inner must be lonely and
thin as air
In a house for sale, no longer a home,
and rugs, bed, husband and cat long gone;
Little but walls and
And speckled sunshine drifting through dusty
far too busy to notice the vast naught within,
vacuum this mining, her telling brings.
She cannot quiet,
cannot sit or stay,
Grows nervous with no motion or noise.
lips lust always after an ear;
The phone grafted to cheek and
Also siphons into the echoing din,
But to small avail,
for a huge hole yawns
Letting all substance drain.
awaits the yeast of reflection
(Too slow that archaic
Never the silence, the stillness
Of mere wonder or
Diamond distance and busy clock are
And words, words, words!
soon as up Ms. Lang turns on,
For all that is is loud, fast,
Good glitters, is rush, run, and sun.
There is no
night, no Sirius, no moon,
No flowing daffodils come March, no
No May apple blooms or new grass perfume.
saunter, no stroll, no gawking loiter
To watch, listen,
Lang drives always above the limit
To quickly arrive; she
quickly wears down brakes.
On a September morning,
Blasting country inside her crimson Volvo,
fan on high, wipers clump, clump, clumping
At top speed to
sweep but the early autumn fog,
She races toward the office
which lets her carry
Aigner, Coach, and Borelli,
her Birkenstocks for summer hurry,
And purchases for winter
preening Barbour and Burberry.