streams of light crawl under
the door and through
three windows:
left
reeling as though wound out
on a thousand lines, fallen from
last night, later on,
before, and this
bed is too large. even if
i hang over both ends,
there's still too much space here.
the depletion drags tracks,
eleven kilometers end to
end,
how
does this end?
not contained in
this emptiness, surely? i
am too incomplete to halt now; but
we surely perish in slower cities.
we all die in a small town.
losing conscious life,
i walk down the hallway,
arms cradling a bowl of
rain water, carrying animacy to where
your eyelids still
pretend to breathe.
i reach the room, and
find myself waiting, find
you missing.
i can't heal my own wounds.