Ad Infinitum

The refrigerator hums; ice
crescents fall through 
the night in a tray.

Soft lint gathers in the mouth
of the trap, as heat tumbles
our clothes dry.

By the front steps, spikes 
of rosemary. Even in almost-winter,  
their scent curls into the underground. 

The paradox of distance is 
it can always be halved 
and halved again. 

A rice grain falls  
without sound. A hundred
of them make the sound of rain.