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.]