it is the quiet that one succumbs to
in the advance of stars and waves
rolling armies in tennis shoes
drilled, lullingly into the head.
It is the spoken words
each a grain of sand shifting
side to side to spare its meanings
that one doesn't resist
forehand or profile,
claims attention as any guardian
sure that the lessons
once learned and lived
will fill the void
of their passing
the things we see
perhaps even smell
are put there by us:
now by you more than by me...
and some men belong lost to the beckon
or to others
as women, to pets or to collections--
it is the fervent glances at the clock
that erases the call.