IN THE MORNING THE TOOTHBRUSHES STARE AT ME

In the morning the toothbrushes stare at me,
like children waking up in a strange house.
The skin of the flung clothes, like fowl emptied of flight.

No civilization ever fought this way with death,
raising every detail to the level of a public event.
The heel of air you left in the gaping shoe –
the face’s relief in the pillow.

Eternal life doesn’t begin at birth,
it’s the result of yielding to difficult rules.
Even if the sun is but a reflection through day and night.
And don’t ring him up at his home.

To the sound of the heart’s shell asking for a little sleep,
the house approaches the kitchen,
to be consoled by the glass you left on the  table,
Undenied vestige of “Once upon a time.”

What did the bed say compiling the thrills of love,
why the whispering? Come and hold me
for I’m a statue of air.

IN THE MORNING THE TOOTHBRUSHES STARE AT ME