Apathy Book Twelve Closes

Apathy Book Twelve Closes
A hundred eighty songs and twelve books closed—
the grey in every register, disclosed
across the twelve sets of the fifteen,
the flat interior examined, the seen
and the unseen of the not-quite-trying,
the adequate documented, the underlying
weight of the grey in its full catalogue.
Twelve books. The grey: my monologue.
Apathy Book Twelve closes—the grey
continues past the final page, the day
after the closing is the same grey day.
Twelve books, a hundred eighty, the array
of the documented flat: complete.
The grey continues. The grey: my beat.
Twelve books close. The grey: still going.
Twelve books closed. The grey: still knowing.
What twelve books teach: the grey is livable.
The grey is wide and the divisible
register of the flat has depth—
the twelve books are the breath
of the honest interior, the record
of the grey-is-real. The word
for the grey: my word, in twelve sets.
Twelve books. No regrets.
I was here and I was in it and I counted—
every angle of the flat, surmounted
by the willingness to document.
The grey declared is the grey meant
for the record. Twelve books:
mine. The grey in its looks
a hundred eighty ways. Still grey.
Still writing. Twelve books. Today.