Blank Eyed

Blank eyed in my den
propane stove pouring heat
against the cold, each clock tick
eloquent as I put out another
burnt out butt end of the day.

There is beauty in the clutter
of the table, the beauty of a
story dimly told. The pieces
never fit together until the end.

Awash in waves of expectation
like a landslide down time. Why
one stone lands against another
is anybody’s guess. Certainly
there is no glue to make it stick.

I need a meaning to pull this poem
to some point, to end it with a bang,
but, being human, wind up at the
beginning of another circle