Dispatch #75

Nothing More

Nothing More


Clover mite crushed
         under my finger, red
streak dragged over a blank
         page, as blank
as the hour, the day,
         despite the low hum
in the apartment:
         refrigerator motor 
kicking on, the old man 
         across the hall talking 
to himself. It isn’t enough 
         to write into this
vacancy, to say 
         the day’s blank—
but what else is summer: 
         what doesn’t heat hollow 
and reduce to a streak—
         these blown husks 
striking pavement, 
         a wasp trapped 
between panes of glass.
         Leave the page stained.
A book of stains. 
         The room dissolving 
around a bolt of sun 
         slashed down the wall.