PULL

Sitting,
one light on
in the room,
carving
a violin from a log.
I realize it’s not
the wood or the blade
but the longing
I need.

Without its pull
my spine would shatter.
Like water or air
I could collapse
with ease.

I loved her, the
one in the framed
photograph by the
candle, but
like the sweater
in the bottom drawer
it will never fit again
and never come back
in style.

All day, the television
informed me of
unemployment in America
and explosion
after explosion
somewhere else in the world.

The sky is as
red as an open sore
and darkness is
leaking on the window.
I think of goodness
when I see the sawdust
on my lap
and the floor,
not yet disturbed
by the four horsemen
and their dull stampede.