Watching Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice in Your Room While You Are Not In It

The men imagine a witch.
A broken bicycle, a basin filled

with cloth. Their faces freeze
to demonstrate ruin,

a layering film of oil.
Around the table, five of them

and the white static
of television spits

soft as mist.
The world ends.

I love it.

They never have dinner.
Their house burns.

I love everything I don’t know
about you, asleep in the next room

I trace dialogue
against the wall.

The dusk encircled road,
their blasted filigree

lawn chairs, and you
the real subject

how a ribbon makes a bow
around a shaved clean neck