I follow whatever I see / of myself in sleep— *

The way wends down these southern streets,
where houses with their wraparound porches
stand next to each other, though there might not  
be any movement behind the curtains. It’s a rare
sight these days: a pair of old-timers on rocking 
chairs taking the air, trading notes on the weather 
or whose child finally finished school or if we are in
for another wet winter. Once, I followed myself
to the shore—a windy night, sky of blackest blue
—and looked east. At least, that’s what I thought
I was supposed to do: bring this simmering
heartsickness to this place at the edge of water,
fold and crease it into shape. Send it away
with proper ceremony. Wish it well.


* – “Peripatetic”