Knock me or nothing, the things of this world
ring in me, shrill-gorged and shrewish,
clicking their charms and their chains and their spouts.
Let them. Let the fans whirr.
All the similar virgins must have emptied
their flimsy pockets, and I
was empty enough,
sugared and stretched on the unmown lawn,
dumb as the frost-pink tongues
of the unpruned roses.
When you put your arms around me in that moment,
when you pulled me to you and leaned
back, when you lifted me
just a few inches, when you shook me
hard then, had you ever heard
such emptiness?
I had room for every girl's locket,
every last dime and pocketknife.
Oh my out-sung, fierce, unthinkable —
why rattle only the world
you placed in me? Won't you clutter the unkissed,
idiot stars? They blink and blink
like quiet shepherds,
like brides-about-your-neck.
Call them out of that quietness.
Knock them in their nothing, against their empty enamel,
against the dark that has no way to hold them
and no appetite.
Call in the dead to touch them.
Let them slip on their own chinks of light.