To be alone and lost
inside yourself, on a rainy Sunday
afternoon. To walk unfocused,
uncaring, for block after nameless
block, your clothes heavy with water,
your heart with something else.
To make your way home, just on dark,
open the door and turn on the light. Find the room
exactly as you’d left it – and to have this fact
somehow astonish you, as if your absence
could never truly be explained
in the first place. To get out of your wet clothes,
take a hot shower with the steam
filling the room like clouds that have
mysteriously infiltrated the building.
Then to sit in the growing silence, thinking
about yesterday, and the day before that,
and the day before that, all the way back
to eternity. Finally to tire of thought
altogether. To long for something more
palpable than the memory of all
these dislocated days.