Somehow I find that my life runs in place;
like everything I've done is vacant space:

She knocked on my door, the other day.
She invited me out to the woods, to play.

She was wired on something, dilated eyes;
she couldn't get over how we all will die.

There were tears in the tree-trunk as rain came down;
we were huddled together on the outskirts of town.

She gave me a hug, and glanced far away;
it must have hurt to know I wouldn't stay.

A few days passed, in the silence of life;
there's nothing to say while you're waiting to die.

Then Thanksgiving dinner with strangers (or friends?),
though this time they stumbled over caps and stems.