we are nothing
in the eyes of wood
the chair’s arms
do not embrace me tonight
the desk’s wings fold ‘round
blank leaves
which wait for words
who never open out and fly
beneath the waning gibbous
in echoes of prayer
above an old garden
wherein the forgotten tree
is swallowed by smoke
the old couple watch
from their obsolete pump
the sum of years vanish
into creation’s cloud
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