My insect life
Red wall, red chair
Red chair. A boot. Still life
or love in all its banality
as how he sits, or she removes
her shoes, or he crosses his ankles,
protrusions of bone. Still life
in the old walls yet, pinned
photographs curl like wings.
Here we have made and broken
beds and hearts and promises,
rattling words in skulls. Still life
and life only, not a meaning
or a story or an effortless break-
ing down of everything into its
parts, finally departs. Still life
wherever you leave it, complete.