she is listening to the way the room breathes. the way
he leaves without warning. the mourning of the walls
and their sorrow-scattered beat. the peeling-paint pant
of want, and wander. she has squandered herself for a
single knock, a noisy clock ticking off the minutes left
until the exhale meets the whoosh of door. she is more
than tired and less than stilled, willed soft with waiting.
poeming over at poetic asides.