Disaster

I know a lousy handshake

when I receive one, half-meant.

The unfocussed gaze. Not listening.

Or the hug that is so light I can feel

the chalk outline behind it.

It’s difficult to keep from falling

into the big black hole that hides

under all those metal plates

you see on the streets. To be swallowed

whole, to disappear, to drown

or be blown away by a gale-force

windbag you met at a university.

Unfair. Creating meaning requires

a good amount of just staring into the air. Time.

I like to build an act or a house of words

to walk through, a series of rooms

outfitted with damask and china,

then let neglect kill off all the plants.

Creak out empty nails from the walls where family

photos once hung. The windows were blown out

with buckshot that burst constellations of glass

on the floor, left shards and shadow.

An umbra that howls at night

so much it makes your knees jerk.

I think you have to add a lot first

in order to subtract.  Unless

you want to be a totally charming

but bad star in the field of creation.

Ask me when I am 90 what I loved most.

First I will tell you it was being held,

second, the slip of buttons through fingers,

then I will get lost in a spin of all there is to love,

a rambly multiverse that makes you wish for silence.

Ask and you'll receive a hug so hard you’ll feel

my whole life ahead.