Rising to her gone.
Her vacuum.
Her seven empty airs,
placed around the rooms.
Bed-chair-stove-bath,
and window-seat
above the outside world
she sat when curled about the coffee for
the sunny morning feet tucked up.

Do the birds look back inside and
seem to wait the watcher?
Do the bubbles rise morosely for the fish?

Ah yes.
Sad sad wrinkled sheets,
no artful patterns drawn
by twisting limbs and
damply heats of rolling love
around the steeplechase of bed.
No ribbons at the head.

Frozen crease of cushion
padding dust motes in the beam
of windowed sun,
softing work is done in
oriental slash and patch
of redly color matching sash
and ottomon alike,
in crush of wear for one not there.

Flame not flicker-flash and
dance for flowered teapot left,
English tea bag dies and slumps,
no resurrect in royal Anglican decree
of flavor’s full intend at night,
no spooning clank to whirl and bend
in sacred dance.

Shower pours eternity.
Music left the dancing splash
and gurgle of delights,
and passage into
nights of damply
candled lights.

Braid-rug now afraid rug
without the outstretched, leggy
sprawl and call to
passion’s roll about,
in moving squares of sun
to light the stage of floor
no more.

Echoes only sounding once,
then stopping in timidity,
dustballs stopped in mid-track,
displaced and frozen on the
path to under-low, the
place that they would
normal be,
without her gone.

Rising to her gone.
Her vacuum.
Her seven empty airs,
misplaced around the rooms.

12/28/2005

Posted on 12/29/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers