A fly will strike its head ninety times
before it finds an open window.
The heart beats, metronomic,
clocklike, but incorrect at all points of the day.
The spider on its web
I sit & feel
the dust not stirred by your feet,
all the doors left closed.
Colder out now,
I warm my hands around the light
of the moon
you painted on our wall.
Photo credit: Pixino via Creative Commons
