Having Nothing to Say
by S. Thomas Summers
I’ll simply mention the blinds hung
in the living room window, how they
sliver my sight into strips of wood and sky.
The horizon has already begun to curl –
a birthday ribbon singed with a heat spread
across the afternoon, thick as icing.
However, if pressed, I might note how
quaintly the floor creaks when one sits
beside the old desk. In the garden, tulip shoots
rise above the earth like small trumpets.
And upstairs, my boy naps. His breath
warms a solar system hanging from his
bedroom ceiling, swirls specks of dust – thick as stars.