Weariness

It settles behind your eyes

It rests its forehead against the door jamb 
and listens to the hum of laundry machines

It's the sound of a spoon 
absently circling the rim of a cup

The residue under fingernails that speaks of trying

The way branches droop even after they 
have given up their fruit

The inside of a coat pocket 
where receipts have been stuffed

The pot of mint on the sill cranes toward light
that only partially filters through blinds

Still, you want to praise it for bringing you 
back into the smallness of a moment

Not asking to witness, not speaking in tongues

Proof of how you train your body toward something 
so real it leaves an undeniable mark