The Search

Something alive and rare in us

this morning.  We know it, and 

the smell is there, too.

Grassy and hopeful.  When our eyes
open, the first thing we ask is:

Are we still sick?

Scan ourselves to see. Decide
we're not
so we have a chance.

We can hear from the shaking
howl of the windows that
this wind makes
no sense.  Scared
to go out in it.
See what we can reckon
from dawn until
noon.  Not sure
how to keep anything
safe.  We know
about endings.

During the search, a stain
was found in the basement.
It haunts our day.
At least the wind has
stopped.

There are no memories
from lunchtime to
sundown.
We must have been busy
because later our bodies
ache in the bed.

In the dark, it is
hard to relax because
of the question.
It fills the room with
a silent pulse:

But what if there's nothing?

Sleep comes once we've
built up a fever.
Almost ecstatic heat.
Even the wind outside is
doing nothing.

We drift into the chill.  It
prickles our bodies
with the answer:

Then there's nothing.