That which won’t leave you

Where was the last place words went hiding
before they said goodbye? My life’s a spool,

a stumbling transcript or translation
of itself among others. The early parts

clumsy, the bones of their orphaned grammar
rattling in jars. I look at the way they amber

in evening light and am dumbstruck at how I don’t
yet have their final names. When others come to me

with their catalog of needs, it’s the long sweep
of road I hear ahead: that familiar restlessness

punctuated by the thin, sharp cries of crickets.
I want a quiet room, a bed laid with linen; my head

turned to a window for want of sight of the moon—
because once I was told it’s steadfast, it never leaves.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Stuck in the past.

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