not at home
At home in the evening, planning escapades. The books read and unread gathering coffee stains and toast crumbs. The at one time unimaginable, commonplace.
Things moving slowly. The sense of progress, though: gears turning, ticking well-oiled shiny. Intangible, unavoidable, inescapable. Backed into imagined corners that flatten and fade and open onto unexpected vantages.
Yet continuance – a stay or mainstay. Listening to Brahms again. Offering avoidances, but acting anyhow.
The way the light comes in through the window is soothing and satisfying. The nightclub pulsing somnolent below. And everywhere are bridges connecting to the known and unknown and unknowable. And I am sleepy.