I never liked this house, those blurry
patterns on the ceilings, the way the windows
never tightly closed.
I think I just fell asleep one afternoon.
It was nothing dramatic.
I thought I was gone for good, but I guess
that’s what we all believe at first.
I don’t know why I keep coming back.
When I look at the fields I notice
only how brown they are, how the wind
fails to move them. And that scarf on the table-
does it belong to someone who knew me?
I could pick it up right now
and amaze you: a scarf floating in thin air!
But perhaps you’re expecting the lights
and loud noises, the really convincing show.
You probably think we understand
what we’re up to, and you’re hoping
for at least one good sentence
you could carry around for a while, like
Someone is always thinking about you here,
but better than that.
If I wanted to speak to you maybe
I’d tell you how much I’ve lost hold of.
But I’m not even sure
how cold it is in this room,
how long you’ve been waiting.
So I just stand here and watch you
closing the windows, who have felt only
the evening’s unmistakable chill.
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