Of

These hauntingly empty interiors
Bleached of color and cleansed of narrative,

There’s not much to know. There are walls, windows
To allow outside light to light the rooms,

One door each, all off-white with dusty floors.
Outside it’s desert. No one lives out there,

No one near. Sunlight, moonlight, and darkness
Rotate without making conversation.

If writing were drawing, this pencil sketch
Would suggest something it isn’t, a calm

Suite of unfurnished walls lacking hunger,
A ruin, an architectural Mars,

Rendered by a living hand longing
To find hope in what hasn’t lived or died.