Thursday, January 12, 2017
Days of January, 2017
from the gray window of his room
on the one hand as an early spring,
on the other as a weak winter.
He turned over in bed and counted
things left undone slowly
like imperfections on the back of his hand:
a check not accounted, a floor of crumbs.
If he remembered a day of strength,
it was a day as a lover, seeming to take
fire from the outside where the touch
was perfect and the eyes lived
in the eyes of another. He judged
time and found it full of strangers
he'd rather not sit next to in a waiting room
that filled casually with humid breath.