"Intransitive"
As he slides his thumb under a Venetian
blind, a fragile triangle of sunshine
slips in, and a gray slice
of inwardness hovers at the slit.
Outside there is an empty birdbath,
a heap of bricks,
a trellis on its side
against the fence,
a Buick, tires squashed
like pieces of rotting fruit.
So much left undone.
Dishes fester in the sink.
Newspapers sit folded
in their rubber bands.
A camera lies open on the table,
filmless.
Beside the garage lies a big granite stone,
overgrown with bougainvillea.
Was it twenty years ago —
or thirty —
that Jane had the landscaper haul it in?
He lazes around the urge to go
and sit on the redwood bench
by the tumble of orange and purple
leaves — he and the stone
merely being,
without object.
© 2008 Fred Longworth
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