There's something so sad about stacked spoons
And the grease-marked ages on the windows
Lonely missives directed to 'the occupant'
A painful apathy in how I can tell
Who's coming up the stairs
Those month-old stains have stayed a year
Appear, loiter, disappear...
It's the gas oven, warmer than some nameless chest
That makes me realise
I thought I found a
(
Read more... )