The Swept House

By dawn the house is clean.
Swept and put in place, the
accumulated things are set for
some invisible inspection.
Sophie sighs, but some
untoward desire arrives as
yesterday it did, and every
molecule that makes her
home desires the same—
there is peace but fleetingly,
and then the threat of some
titanic wave dragging back the
tide like light from ecstasy’s
approaching motion, the
spinning top, the gamble.
What will we be interrupted by,
she wonders. What erotic
tragedy will blunder in to
disorder dayful clarity. From
the sea sounds of crashing
bleakly, unobstructed break,
entering by some prescription
on the scene, but at that hour
everything is orderly, still,
serene, and strangely empty.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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