How could he put it?
Something about the obedience of things that touched him, yesterday.
That small droplet of water on the side, by the kettle, in the morning.
How long had it been there like that?
The mark on the floor, the dust on the skirting,
The untroubled leaf mould in the ditch, down by the side of the house, holding bulbs and bits of litter.
Then, on his evening walk, some captive light
In that parked car that faced west over the college sports grounds.
He’d have liked to sit inside that quiet cabin a while.
Yes, something about the reliability of these things.
Their willingness to show up.
To be a consistent version of themselves,
Until disturbed.
Constant Voice 