tire tracks in the snow
show me where
i backed in,
pulled out.
tire tracks in the snow
make beautiful loops,
graceful arcs.
this is all a sequence
of patterns, even
the chaotic parts.
i wake again to
an emptiness
that i’ve not yet learned
to fill. this
silence is sometimes
hollow, so
i stuff it with cotton.
a man i’ve spent more than
a decade with
though never met,
he speaks to me
through an electronic box.
there are humans
out there that wear
their bones on the outside,
the same way i wear my
professional ability to pretend:
i am content,
i am confident,
i have a life
that is rich
with meaning.
from this house
i can see the ocean.
i can see
the houses of the wealthy
that nervously cling
to outer islands.
the sky is
the color of ocean;
ocean does not
compete with it.
there are tire tracks
in the snow
outside, they
create looping patterns
and graceful arcs.
i’ve said hello
to a cat, hello
to a dog, hello
to the mountain
of my heart.
the heater kicks on,
a flame
fed by propane,
insistent in its task of
taking the cold
from this space,
replacing it.
were the angle
different,
the machine
different,
the pattern would be
inverse; take this
heat from this space
and replace it.
to speak of emptiness
is a minor form
of sacrilege,
so i allow the silence
to be silent,
and the emptiness to
inhabit me until i burst.
what a perfect pattern;
all of us here
together;
each of us here,
alone.
zakschafer.com 