People walk in
quiet circles
and flies gather in pairs
along the windowpane.
All things carrying with them
their own little language.
And I am a reflection
of all these things I do not know.
I sit, patiently
as if patience were chosen,
and observe with
raw shoulders
all the things outside me
that move too fast
for me to follow.
Rest comes easily
each night -
not as peace,
but as a satin cloth
draped over
this insistent inertia
Each morning I reach for understanding
Each time I return wounded.
And I do not bleed gracefully.