No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Drawing closed, drawers
and other things with latches.
Hands as pleasure, nodes of the quarry.
Radio frequencies positioned in lulls,
in the red room where you sleep.
At night I know you are one room over,
my bed positioned by the door.
The stable pride of things called home:
despondent handiwork and paper craft,
a sudden drawing to musty smells.