Knock me or nothing, the things of this world

ring in me, shrill-gorged and shrewish,

clicking their charms and their chains and their spouts.

Let them. Let the fans whirr.

All the similar virgins must have emptied

their flimsy pockets, and I

was empty enough,

sugared and stretched on the unmown lawn,

dumb as the frost-pink tongues

of the unpruned roses.

When you put your arms around me in that moment,

when you pulled me to you and leaned

back, when you lifted me

just a few inches, when you shook me

hard then, had you ever heard

such emptiness?

I had room for every girl's locket,

every last dime and pocketknife.

Oh my out-sung, fierce, unthinkable—

why rattle only the world

you placed in me? Won't you clutter the unkissed,

idiot stars? They blink and blink

like quiet shepherds,

like brides-about-your-neck.

Call them out of that quietness.

Knock them in their nothing, against their empty enamel,

against the dark that has no way to hold them

and no appetite.

Call in the dead to touch them.

Let them slip on their own chinks oflight.