The language of this life pleases me. There’s a lot of silence
in it, and then the mention of things happening: longing,
healing, the rain.
I’m floating a little, petal in a puddle.
The mind is strong but badly wanting.
This boredom a curse, a haunting.
What else in this day?
I rattle it to find out.
Too tired to make choice or plan,
the minutes till midnight fewer than
the fingers on my hand.
A hollow is starting in me;
it is stopping me.
I’ll leave a little after you arrive.
Heart, a tiny hive. A slave
to the money you left on the bar,
your empty glass, your rain-wet jacket.
The way you turn,
This air full of crows and sirens.