the unopened box on the front doorstep
is slumped over, sopped with rainwater
finding its place in the world near the door mat
the fan hums steady with an occasional tick
your hair squirms beneath the unstable air
while the television fakes soundless scenarios
if you don’t really care, why don’t you look away?
you consider life and its string of suspensions
crossing and building bridges, you are an engineer
calculating balances, waiting to expire
you used to burn everything down
haphazardly, you consider inherent sweetness
the softness of your shadow on the wall
the things you never finished
like the degree in architecture
© june 2011 heather brager
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