Poetry
Trusting Good Things
And not testing them to see if they’ll break
one.
In early hours of morning-darkness I press
my finger into
clay, then smooth it out
in long strokes until everything is flat
and there is room again.
I shake out pencil dust like cake
crumbs, then look
at the corner of the living room. I could poke
my finger through a hole and tear
it open.
I blow tufts of spent eraser off
my notebook, push a pencil-shaving shell
onto the marble counter. I hold
my eraser to the corner of the room, moving
back and forth. I stop
when it begins to erase, mortified that, maybe,
my whole existence is pencil on paper.
My sponge-body soaks
moroseness, it’s too early to feel
such remorse, the sun is
already late, I am already falling, half-ways,
like a car in a sinkhole.