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For the Reader Who Will Not Stay  

(after a list of three truths)

I have pared the bread

to a single crumb,

so it will not weary your jaw.

I have drained the wine

to a thimble‑swallow,

so it will not cloud your head.

I have locked the third door

and pocketed the key,

for I know how you hate to find

yourself in a room you did not expect.

You prefer the garden gate:

open, low‑hinged,

a path you can stroll

in your lunch hour.

You prefer roses already cut,

vase‑ready, no thorns

to coax your blood.

Still— in the rafters of the stanza,

I hang small bells, and in the mortar

between these plain bricks

I press a coin, face down.

It will tarnish there, waiting

for the one pair of eyes

who sees that the wall is hollow.

.