Four Across

The silence next door is a heavy wool coat.

I moved the bills and the flyers for pizza

to find the grid you left in the crease of the cushion.

The pen is still there, its plastic cap chewed.

You hit a wall at 4-Across.

The ink is a dark, blossomed bruise

where the ballpoint sat too long in the pulp,

soaking the gray paper until the letters

drowned in the heavy blue rot.