The Trenches

This is a sultry noon,

Feeling tried and sluggish.

The hollow, greedy eye,

Gaze to the mirror.

To figure out

What makes me bogged down

with my wife’s silence,

what she is drink-shaped

and swallow the lonely.

Or

with my cracked mirror,

which it reflecting

my fading faces

that fade into the rifts

the mirror I plead to,

which the anxiety leaking from the rifts

seep into the bentwood chair,

my shaken hands

and this paper

beyond the words.

While a cloud pressed

Above my garage.

I had to tell myself

What it is matter

to dig a trench,

a trench with coward size,

that I can see the dog’s bone,

and my bone in the future.