The hay gathered itself into neat rectangles.
The road longed for a spine and so came the passing lane.
I sat in my office, alone, at last, without exclamation.
There was the book I kept meaning to read.
There was the plant I kept meaning to water.
And so I learned my touch could not be heard.
Nothing called to me except for myself.
I peered into the hallway, for where else do the inconsolable roam?
I comforted the window, its view of the other window.
The glass bore prints of the quiet janitor.
Way up high I could see where the moths get out.