Tide Poem 2

I left the clean laundry in a lump on one half of my queen sized bed

on purpose.

Inherent in its lumpness are ambiguities,

one of which I snatch out of the air and apply to the thing

for comfort.

A body,

not your body, all you greedy eyes hoping.

Its emptiness in being plain

and its absoluteness in being plain

set the paradox whirring.

This hollow heap,

grain by grain

deconstructed,

haunts.