In the Alcove

I hang on to so little,

But I do it so tightly.

A loose leaf, a matchstick, some black tea.

I used to use spoons to measure things,

Now I use mildew.

Miss use me misused muse,

And drift towards the alcove.

Bright, not so bright, but bold,

We speak, yes we speak, in the alcove.

Speak of men-women, young, so old,

Dull and shivering,

Simultaneously hot and cold.

The tiny wilted preacher man,

That was once my desert plant,

Lasts at stand in the alcove.

Goodbye new day's news, days never told.

Come to me in prisms capsizing old deities.

Come to me in drips to the unconquering.

Come to me sweet misery.

7 years—load save.

I'm new again.