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Little
enters her ear or eye that doesn't exit soon
Through a
conscientious tongue,
So that the inner must be lonely and
thin as air
In a house for sale, no longer a home,
Daughter
and rugs, bed, husband and cat long gone;
Little but walls and
floor remains,
And speckled sunshine drifting through dusty
panes.
She's
far too busy to notice the vast naught within,
Cousin to
vacuum this mining, her telling brings.
She cannot quiet,
cannot sit or stay,
Grows nervous with no motion or noise.
Her
lips lust always after an ear;
The phone grafted to cheek and
chin
Also siphons into the echoing din,
But to small avail,
for a huge hole yawns
Letting all substance drain.
Nothing
awaits the yeast of reflection
(Too slow that archaic
loaf),
Never the silence, the stillness
Of mere wonder or
single-syllable awe.
Diamond distance and busy clock are
All.
And words, words, words!
As
soon as up Ms. Lang turns on,
For all that is is loud, fast,
bright;
Good glitters, is rush, run, and sun.
There is no
night, no Sirius, no moon,
No flowing daffodils come March, no
Easter hyacinths,
No May apple blooms or new grass perfume.
No
saunter, no stroll, no gawking loiter
To watch, listen,
absorb.
Ms.
Lang drives always above the limit
To quickly arrive; she
quickly wears down brakes.
On a September morning,
radio
Blasting country inside her crimson Volvo,
Heat and
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,
Affords
her Birkenstocks for summer hurry,
And purchases for winter
preening Barbour and Burberry.
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