night passes
and there's no one to write to
though someone snaps his fingers behind me
and wanders back and forth, picking things up and putting them down
and someone else is sleeping somewhere else
and some others wait in the back of their minds

I'm reclined, hands on the keys
belly sorting, one leg bent to warm cold foot on warm calf
face dissatisfied

he's on his way to sleep will I come
and I'll come and do these things and this is all that I'll do
the objects of life exist and I am not
a part of weaving strands between them to create another
world within a world
I'm alive surviving with my vibrance past
and in the face of winter putting out a
few blossoms last