by David Handsher
dust floats
across the window
gray spider still
in its web
an umade bed
clothes on the floor
somewhere the apple
falls from a tree
unattended harvest
tarnished by the sun
waiting for the tug
on the silent web
waiting for the guiding hand
waiting for the voice
inside your head
waiting for the bushel
waiting for the moment
when God spoke to Abraham
waiting for the broom