Monday, December 9, 23:46 CST

another room
this one's smaller
with more yellow-brown paint and no sink

winter sunlight through the oak tree and in the window
the kind that really does have a different quality
is fading out
leaving us sitting
in the separate lights of seperate desk lamps

me on the edge of my bed
reading the last pages of a river runs through it
and martijn in a chair
proofreading some last minute draft

from here i can read the spines
of every book on my desk
hear the hiss of nothing playing on my stereo

see two bottles
one full of ink,
the other empty of vanilla coke

the glass paperweight with the 1900 patent date
and a trough across the top
that holds, though not at present
a single pen perfectly
for all i know someone's masterpiece

two maps on the wall
full of places i'd like to go
next to a bulletin board
full of flyers and fading ticket stubs

perfect moments
the kind that hold it all
and just let it be

— like walking through an empty highschool hallway
towards the parking lot and home for the vacation

like standing in fog on top of the hill
looking down
at the house and all the trees
you covered in christmas lights
a month ago when snow seemed imminent

like sitting on the floor
early some spring morning
hair still wet from the rain you can hear out the open window
feeling the caffeine buzz in your bones
and the empty span of summer stretching out ahead

like the lights go off and
everyone surges to the stage

like windows down and rolling
on a road you don't know,
desert dry wind and the absolute
uncertainty of a future —

don't come often
but they do come

tags: topics/poem

p1k3 / 2002 / 12 / 9