television
the color of old maps
thin tea
television
the color of old maps
thin tea
uncluttered air
saying so much less
than
not volume
but gravity—maw open
invitation
a pried open fist—
palm proffered to show
nothing’s there
piled there,
our altar of foodstuffs:
plenty
three times lit,
three times curtains flutter—
black house
in a room
in a sea—current turning
ever to walls