The Other Side

Morning. The private life. The other side

of the bed kept cool. The window

still open, still an oppression. Rain

has chiseled paint from the windowsill.

What’s underneath resembles the body

of an ant. Only a moment is given

to transcribe this ruin, so what to describe? That world

of rust and off-white sheen, how

the paint chips fall, make odd shapes on the grass?

Or, the company of sky, the throat

of a songbird, the silence that settles around

a voice, the lone tree in the yard: wet, luminous.