After

with your hungry mouth as you lift the fork.

Something Sane. Open the door.
A guest sits down at the kitchen table.

Washing evening dishes:
something simple, something sane.
Water dreams over your wrist,
your hand, a round
transparent dish.

Something Simple. Night, rusty fire escape.
Even the rain: sane.

Urgent street voices; screech
of a hinge. Simple. A clanking
bang,

somebody is closing a gate
or opening one.