and then there was the room 

and it was bare

and the bulb was bare that lit it 

and in the corner the man was bare 

his back was turned 

and he sat 

and he held his arms over his head 

crossed in front of his face 

and you could tell he had sat there 

for a while as you breathed

that scent of stillness 

that nothing had changed 

that time was empty 

like a calendar without numbers or days 

or phases of the moon 

just empty squares 

like the room 

bare 

and there was a taste of metal 

like in the dead of winter 

so long before your tongue 

had touched another's 

but had dryly extended 

that lover of language 

and pressed against the cold steel 

of a high chain link fence 

and you wondered if that icy gray adhesion

would forever numb flavors 

more subtle than that salty 

woolen taste that came from crying 

for mitten mouth comfort 

and the room was bare

and the man sat 

and there was a taste of metal 

and the man was crying 

silently 

but there was a rhythm to the fall and rise 

of his bare arms 

while his long dirty-nailed fingers 

held the top of his head 

like the blessing of a father 

but because he was alone 

and they were his hands 

it was less blessing than protection 

as he appeared to cower from blows 

which came from dark imaginings 

as the room was empty and bare

and the man sat and there 

was a taste of metal 

and the man was crying 

and there was a window high and barred

with smoke-gray sky 

and just enough light to cast

a long dim shadow of the man

onto the far wall 

and because he sat naked 

with arms crossed 

hands on head 

silently sobbing 

his shadow was a wounded bird 

tempest ravaged 

flockless and unfeathered 

blown off course 

through the high bars 

of the bare room 

to mimic and mirror 

the irrhythmic despair 

of the man who sat bare

all alone there 

for you had gone 

without speaking 

heartbroken by all 

that could not be said.