Begin
Mystery who wanders the basement.
Mystery who kicks at the screen.
Mystery whose cowbells mean something is close
to appearing, to appearance.
Earth—Silence—open, don’t keep shutting
or turning mysterious (refuse to be
Rome, Jerusalem, Babylon, those stones),
struggle forward toward me.
There is someone here, waiting, not angry.
Is it even lonely? Similarly restless. Maybe
not even me either—watching the windows.
Tickle the wind chimes, wander the lawn.
Perhaps turn near the patio where someone—
not even me exactly—has left a full mug
of tea, sweet, milky, not even steaming
anymore. No one knows why. Not here …
