Moving In (To the New Life)

I only hung, one

     painting

              on the fair-sky ocean

   wall. Isolated

        island– my year

    was a twelve-button sweater

tightened to the collar. 

    Coarseness, wool,

             and what touch

    I live for? Yesterday,

               I dropped the

                        soup you wished

                  you could hug me

         instead; my sphinx 

               cat sits

                              on my chest,

            licking herself

                      under the still ceiling

        from staring off into

                       the dark empty

                                hallway,

                where we both have

                      passed simply-

                            needing nothing-

                                      but the next step

                 of which there is a long,

                                      long staircase

                                                       both

                                                    ways.