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how many poems have there been
where everything’s
a specificity of edges and outsides
and the sun is narrowed on the floor
by the western window keeping warm

how many poems have there been
where the reader knows shoes
take one onto the roads of the day
the windows pass overhead one by one
behind the screen doors in smoky
squares lit figures play
the neighbor’s dreams
and soporific notes bump the overstrung
laundry that has kept the shape
of its children and grandfathers
so that against the sky it would seem
folk with boiled tongues have come to watch you pass

hints of puddles in the depressions
where someone crossed, opened a door,
and made their journey safe
how many poems have there been
where the dogs sense the coming
of hard weather and either bolt
or crawl to safety under a porch
where the butter light stripes them
into little whiskered trolls panting

you can hear them breathing
how many poems have there been
where the ships have closed their
blue sails and the townies have gathered
and when the gang planks are pinned
and the waiting’s over someone says
all lost at sea, I suppose, but then
who tied the sails and when they
embarked weren’t they green and red?

how many poems have there been
where the last lines close
around the sound of weariness
desoiled by floor bristles
or interlopers removed
or just the movement
of the windowed sun keeping warm
an hour or two closer to the couch