It could be dawn.
The light, crumpled like sheets.
The ashtray full.
A shadow multiplies on four walls.
The room is empty.
No witnesses.
But someone was here.
A moment ago twin tears shimmered
On polished wood
(Did a couple live here?)
In the armchair a suit, recently filled by a body,
Has collapsed into a bolt of fabric.
Come in, look around. No one’s here,
Just the breathing air, crushed
As though by a tank.
A half-finished sweater remembers someone’s fingers.
A book lies open, marked by a fingernail.
(How amazing, this silence beyond the boundary!)
On the polished wood, two stains.
On the floor by the armchair an apple,
Bitten but not brown.