Nothing More
Joseph Massey

Clover mite crushed
           under my finger, red
streak dragged over a blank
           page, as blank
as the hour, the day,
           despite the low hum
in the apartment:
           refrigerator motor
kicking on, the old man
           across the hall talking
to himself. It isn’t enough
           to write into this
vacancy, to say
           the day’s blank—
but what else is summer:
           what doesn’t heat hollow
and reduce to a streak—
           these blown husks
striking pavement,
           a wasp trapped
between panes of glass.
           Leave the page stained.
A book of stains.
           The room dissolving
around a bolt of sun
           slashed down the wall.