dull because the days end with
or without joy, dull to the passing
of hands over my vacant skin
to the slow business of living
at the mercy of calendars

dulled having spoken and not been
honoured with heeding, dull to the
grey of dull thoughts, pall of ordinary
hurts. benumbed with kindnesses
depleted, last chances long since used,
the dull timbre and hollow language of need.

dull as sloth, as the weariness of surrender,
dull the way your absence becomes
a seed's impossible enterprise
underground, the dull curve of its capsule,
its inwardness, a small locked country
whose only key lies outside its borders.