Somewhere in the house a dark door
opens and death appears, which is silence.
We go in to pray for a thousand years alone
and to long for the voice of the sea.
I see there is today and you are here
and the sunlight and the singing birds.
Nothing beyond the house — the hissing
of snakes and the foul traffic — is worthy of us.
That dark room must be tomorrow,
and the cold rain against the glass, and the clouds.
J. Kyle Kimberlin