The Gap

There are eighty holes across the tile

from the corner to the light.

I haven’t moved for quite a while,

I’ve lost the stomach for the fight.

A dust mote drifts inside the beam,

a tiny, aimless piece of grit.

Life is just a quiet scheme

and I am in the thick of it.

It lands upon a moth that’s dried

against the casing of the door.

Everything has gone inside

and won't be coming out no more.