The Room
   
   It is an old story, the way it happens
   sometimes in winter, sometimes not.
   The listener falls to sleep,
   the doors to the closets of his unhappiness open
   
   and into his room the misfortunes come --
   death by daybreak, death by nightfall,
   their wooden wings bruising the air,
   their shadows the spilled milk the world cries over.
   
   There is a need for surprise endings;
   the green field where cows burn like newsprint,
   where the farmer sits and stares,
   where nothing, when it happens, is never terrible enough.