Scene – Matthew Caldwell

There was a sentence halfway written.
There was a thumbprint ridged in ink.
There was a crease in sheaved paper.
There was a ring left from the drink.
There was a chair turned, facing outwards.
There was a door hung from its hinge.
There was a drop that wasn’t water.
There was a dog that knew to cringe.
There was tall grass, dazed and listing.
There was dirt sporing the air.
There was a quiet cleft by birdsong.
There was ragged breathing, barely.
There’d been a plan, the traces told it.
There was a shovel in the back.
There were gloves and tape and sibilant teeth.
There were constraints that held them fast.
There was no way they would believe her.
There was no cold hand that made fists.
There’d be floodlit eyes for every move
And no coming back from this.
Sing, stolid choir of objects, eyeless and aghast,
of a world that came to stay.
Add to your claythroat concord what lies in a hole
that took all day.
If an account remains ungiven,
if the seams close sheer and smooth,
if God’s own mind forgets, this time,
a scene will bear the truth.

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