Dobie’s Desk
Sitting at this desk, I wonder
whose words will emerge
from the stained wood,
its whorls and cracked surface
detailing a specific language
of the inert and precious.
Earlier I rapped the cistern
to verify water level,
and a week ago startled
a cottonmouth sunning its lengthy
self at the crossing. The door
just blew open, perhaps,
or a ghost wished to offer its
voice, neither malice
nor approval imbedded
in the gesture. History
shadows me despite my best
efforts. I walk, drink water,
write, think of friends left
behind or gone ahead,
reading between the grains
and dark spaces, looking for rain
in the blue, for light and benediction
and the secret poetry of furniture.
O at the Edges 