these days, i live on the
spaces
between the  lines
of whatever story i thought my life
would turn out to be,

wide awake in a faceless house
waiting
while an everbeating heart of rain
spatters on the weathervane
(vain)
spinning lacklusterly,
lackadaisically nowhere
under a grey sky,
unaware

of the slumbering sun above,
or the custom cares of anyone
who has ever been in love...

[droplets on the roof]

though
sometimes,

through a mirrored screen
in the world between
waking and dream,
i get this fluttering feeling
(a certain fleeting)

of knowing

that somewhere between these walls--
(perhaps)
over ceilings,
under floors,
behind cupboards
or closet(d) doors,

waits a weaving

window

looking over the garden
back to my storylife
impatient
for my arrival
(my longsought revival),

and i'm just too
deranged
by the rain
to hear it
chiming my name.