Some sigh, like a mild evening wind,
my hand
sleeps on my folded knee, the hairs
from the nape of my neck
stand like fair soldiers, soft
static runs through with a shiver—
an engine purring,
like a cat or thunderstorm
on the slated bedroom roof.
More moments like these,
non-jumpers glued to a ledge.
I'm leaving, I'm going,
but staying, yet hoping.