Whispering, rolling in dreams,
my husband had lost interest:
we are all distanced in these days
of the unknown unknown. His thoughts
are ants seeking bread crumbs. They are
ready to be useful, though tangled
in vines and piles of grass. I nailed up
his back door—even here I felt his anger
in the dissolution of form, in the fine
white flakes of what would have been
the phone rings, in no home except
make pretend, lips flying, darkness
falling, O Beast. But he didn’t
answer. When did I learn to answer
the night?
