To love nothing

[Lawrence]

After work, he always sits
By his kitchen window.

It’s winter. The sun
Sinks into a hammock
Of oaks and rusted fire;
Nails of light cling to clouds
As if trying to escape quicksand-
Only to resign, and suffocate.

To him, it’s satisfaction.

Minutes later, blackness.
Below, streetlights direct ghosts-
Their green-yellow-reds
Now meaningless; the language
Of a vanished race.

He looks upward; the moon
Is like a broken monocle
Glowing with sagacious light,
Comprehending all-
And nurturing nothing

He loves nothing; inhabits it
The way a rattlesnake
Cools beneath stone.
Sometimes, he lays in bed;
Pretends he is ascending
Floating higher and higher
Until he becomes a star-
Invisible to even God.