It's Still Life

Black Waits (an imagist poem)

Black window stares across the street.
Black curtains hang, charcoal cloth.
A child coughs.
The mother hushes him —
black sleeve across his mouth.

Black rain shines.
Even puddles reflect black —
broken buildings,
black coat flapping against wind.

Black comes quiet:
mail left unread,
a room kept shut,
a name swallowed whole.

Some things root in blackness —
moss in ruin,
seeds that will not be forgiven.

Black is where things bide their hunger.
Black is the held breath before the cut.
Black is the curtain drawn,
and the sleeve that never lets go.

Black waits longer than memory.