"Moving" (Poem 29)

Between my arms
something about this rings hollow,
though I see it overflows,
leaving a trail of junk to follow.

Years of book ends, bottle openers,
nail clippers, socks, and leg warmers
reaching from the bare carpet,
and I care for none of it.

But still I follow it
to the mattress against the wall, leaning
beside the window by the corridor
beside folded boxes and open doors,

And I don't know what it is
but I think I can hear it
along the cracks and through the quiet—

The rooms empty in their clutter,
more hollow now than cleared tomorrow.