washed and stacked, and
watching
in their chipped and shiny stares
not speaking their reproof, they glint
they glare
at the bare cupboard where they,
transients, briefly sleep
the floor smacks sticky kisses
on crumbcaked heels
a thin line of brown grease
weeps beneath the stove-eye lids
and there are drifts,
are little gusts
of dust in all the edges
settling
in their slow micrometers
down to rest
(A little sleep! a little slumber -- a little folding
of the hands -- to rest)
Apathy, entropy, ennui:
the sins confessed
hang your brainstrings out to dry
close your eyes
don't watch the world fall down around your sighs
(he who is slack in his work)
but i have done with destruction
i have washed the dishes
tomorrow
(maybe)
tomorrow, i will sweep
