At night—the light turned off, the filament

Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,

His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low

To touch a swampy source—he thought of death.

Her father’s hilltop home allowed him time

To sense the nothing standing like a sheet

Of speckless glass behind his human future.

He had two comforts he could see, just two.

One was the cheerful fullness of most things:

Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil

Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.

The other was burning the trash each day.

He liked the heat, the imitation danger,

And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,

String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,

Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.