Listening to some Nueblo Pueblo by Greg Haines can be heartbreaking.
DAY NINETY-THREE (2015-7-10)
The world has become small:
the ruff of fur along the cat's back,
the nub of carpet beneath elbows, propped up,
the scratch of a pen across the mouth of paper.
Pillows smell of hair, soap, the tang of sweat.
When light comes, it shreds itself through curtains.
An empty glass waits beside the bed.
Time is measured in paces, from one corner to the next:
physicality as structure, as words within bones.
Conversations happen only as exhales of smoke.
Sound ebbs against the window's cheeks.