In Rooms Crowded with Vows

Like calling down a well, and waiting

for a blooded stone to rise,

an explanation as if an

echo.

If none listen, no room listens, nowhere listening, no murmuring nods listened–

does he stand there

or howl?

If a tree fell in the forest-- as an inferno cracked trunks, racked shades and roiled haze–

does he stand there

or hear?

Inexplicable, unimaginable, irresolvable, irredeemable, inalterable, rubble run to pebbles–

does he stand at all

or is he even . . .

Like repeating a vow, and waiting

while an accusation rises,

reciprocating as in

fidelity.

[One of the divorce poems, so working on it since 2021. Small things, long doings.]