When it’s a
feeling.
Of being
smuggled into yourself,
for a
temporary ( sorry) eternity.
Looking for
bits of bits, yourself,
rummaging with
papers on the train,
having
exhausted any chance
to sense
poetry in being blown in the wind,
but having
exhausted maybe even exhaustion
and, what
after? Going on rummaging
with the
badly folded papers of yourself
on the
train, while it clanks to heaven
whose door
was closed time out of mind,
while you
have been frowning, smiling too,
fumbling
through lives, scrutinizing
illegal
corners popping up in the famine,
the subtle
famine of feelings, of being really here,
a few papers
of yours fumbled on among chores,
and air
blown from chinks by your elbow
on the
swarming away-countenance of the train window,
in your
disentangled sameness ( sorry) of days,
an eternal
mobile vibrating, past-caring in the pocket,
the dream
of a touch-screen flashing, forlorn,
in the business
of silence,
in the
queue from absence to absence.
Having lost
all ghosts. You,
just
unasked, undue.
So simply,
so normally uncared-for.
On the many
roads.
