I don’t claim to know anything
other than how night obediently tilts its head to morning
and life in its endless week never tires of opening and closing flowers
for those of us who sleep alone and set one plate on the table
laughter has a different meaning
to us the sound of one fork clinking to one knife is reason
to us the stillness of the moth on the wall is a second shadow
to us memories are either before or after
to us the ticking of hours grow louder after midnight
we lay in our coffin cold beds repeating
age is but a little box in which we press ourselves
