Earth—Silence—open, don’t keep shutting
or turning mysterious (refuse to be
Rome, Jerusalem, Babylon, those stones),
struggle forward toward me.

There is someone here, waiting, not angry.
Is it even lonely?  Similarly restless. Maybe
not even me either—watching the windows.
Tickle the wind chimes, wander the lawn.

Perhaps turn near the patio where someone—
not even me exactly—has left a full mug
of tea, sweet, milky, not even steaming
anymore.  No one knows why.  Not here at least.

The phone didn’t ring.  I wasn’t hungry.
Nothing like the dog howling at the mailman.
No neighbor needing help.  I just stood up—
but not me necessarily—and I went back to my life

to find it missing—or maybe it was me then.
Mystery, knock.  The laundry can go on
being uninhabited.  There is vodka in the freezer
so cold it might make a voice tangible, easier.

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