"to wonder at order
and never wonder at ruin"
- D. Bonta

Sometimes I envy
the plain white lines
and pale planks of wood
on the floor of a magazine
kitchen—everything stacks
in tidy tiers with hardly
a bolt or a nail in sight.
The sun is always streaming
gently into other rooms
with no sense of wild
dishevelment. If
there are clothes
on hangers, they are
colorless and shapeless
as if no shoulders
had shrugged them on,
as if they were illustrations
of the word garment, made
from cotton or linen
or wool. There is not a hair
in sight, nor a wastebasket
overflowing with shredded
papers and bills. Not a dent
made by two heads
on the pillows,
not a rumple in the sheets
that must have draped
at night over intertwined
legs. And yet part of me
is seized by the desire
to be overcome by this
clean wash of absence:
as if the empty
fireplace never wished
for the roar of fire,
as if the windows were
never licked by rain;
as if each knife
and fork and plate
in the dish rack
never held a thing
that once lived
before being rendered
into pieces.


In response to Via Negativa: Disorderly.

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