Where Somebody Died

The self  refuses to appear in this bare place. It fears that mute chair and the still window. The sunlight scares it. There might rise up a sound. The door doesn’t like to move, and the crow out there hesitates; he knows a hole flown into by mistake would make a bite of   him. What was sits standstill in the chair, hangs, stunned, against the dry-eyed light. Nobody in sight. Inanimate things, still  lifeless. This room’s so empty I doubt I’m standing here; there can’t be room for me and total emptiness. Only some far-off sounds persist. The brute truck over the interstate. The flames in the incinerator chewing his old vests.