After the week-old magazines
and half-read books are scattered
face-down all through the flat...

after turning the radio on and off...

after leaving the guitar
in the corner
for the fourth time...

after jerking off to the face
of the black woman flirting
on the bus ride home...

after the anger
     and the fear
          and the courage
               and the grief...

after all the useless questions
and senseless answers...

after I stop doing and start writing...
after I stop writing and start living

I crawl back into my skin
and I am

after all...

alone.

Alone is after
the wind whirls the world
away from me,
and rattles empty branches
against the side
of my soul.