70spoems/whorls

WHORLS

I’ve sat in this room until
I know the wood whorls by heart.
Like childhood clouds
they make faces and shapes,
unlike the clouds they are static.
I know the familiar hum
of the refrigerator
and the precise moment
the toilet will
automatically flush.
The furnace ignites
with the same dependable
spittering crack,
and the branches hit the rooftop
with cricket-steady rhythm
in a wind storm,
the reverse of what
they used to call
future shock.

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