I lie back in the big bed and let the last of Evan Williams tingle
I allow the world, of all it invisible, to descend and crush the marrow
out of me, quiet like weeping, soft
like these sheets twisted in loving
or simple sleep, a sudden sculpture casting new shadows.
This morning we cracked the stew shanks, beef shinbones, large
and heavy, made for weight
-bearing, broke them open for the dogs to get at. Their tongues
leapt in, greedy. No shame
in the animal force they are, just quiet insistent
It is like that now, here. It is quiet and still.