Stalled
motionless
in sudden awareness
of the dirty rug
and cat-furred blankets,
I turn down the music
and think: what should I do
next?
A chore’s a way of arresting
entropy toward
an inescapable fate:
things will get dirty
with our traces and fragments.
What shall I do next?
Sit down and return to the work
of poetry?
Isn’t that just creating
more dirt, or at least
pushing the dirt that’s already there
into pleasing patterns?
What shall I do next?
Sit and think some more,
let the dirt pile up,
plan to mold it later
as if I were the successor
to Picasso, only to see the work
covered in another layer
of remains and leftovers?
What shall I do next?
The vacuum in the next room
is defense against the vacuum
in this one,
and that one
marvelously
turns on and off
with a switch.
Dark Matter 