The Long Wait

 

There’s a pressure behind me
but I've stopped turning around.
It’s the weight of a boulder at the end
of a climbing road, the one that leads me
to a dusty house.


I hear the spaces between the notes,
the interruptions of songs when static
chokes the air. Silence evades me,
seeking its own refuge from the salt
of wounds and tears.


Where do I go? Every place has transformed
into waiting platforms at stations devoid
of arrivals. The clocks spins in situ,
so I flip through calendar pages;
every square is blank.


Yesterday, a blind man sat in the sun
and smiled. I saw the leaves swirl
around his shoes, on the borrowed
life of winds. He knows something
I have forgotten.