thursday, march 2, 2023

the way that midmorning
on a tuesday
can be the worst time
to think of weekends
and the distance
from the last one
to the next

the way february's a
bad month to think
back on christmas
and contemplate
september

3:13 in the morning
is a grim interval
in which to see
the bedside numerals,
segments floating red
in the dark over
her shoulder

and remembering the
day past, wonder if
you'll sleep before the
daylight on its way

the threads of this life
weave in and out of
some pattern i cannot see
or they fray at the
edge of a spreading tear

i waver without saying
much, between joy and ---
well, what i cannot say.
a sense of loss or
one of foreboding?

my yesterdays all read
like missed exits
and letters left cruelly
unanswered for years on end
this time of night

i get up to write this
but all the lamps are
too bright for a sleeping
house

so i light a dusty candle
out of the clutter on
my grandma's kitchen table
and half the lines have left me
before i get them to the page

you might imagine better ones
the way i imagine all the
tomorrows i might have made
had i been better then.