While I was busy creating diversions, some piece of brain lay awake at night like a cranky baby with melancolic, busy composing this.
Sometimes the anticipation of missing someone is worse than noticing they've gone.
Insomnia Postcard: Still Here
You have gone,
and will not miss me.
There are too many new pieces there
to puzzle together,
busying a mind.
I will not be behind that strange new leaf--
the light will dapple places
your feet have never touched,
and you will peer at your toes
at a new angle,
reexamining their oddness.
In moments you might miss me--
like in populated squares
where strangers' fingers weave together
like baskets,
Or glasses of red wine sit around
in lazy, bloody pairs--
You will discover a single dark braid
laid down a slim young woman's back,
and stare at it and wonder
what it would feel like
in your hand.
I will still be here,
where every curb is one already
stepped over with you,
and each street or mailbox
is a part
of a familiar, old routine--
The dog on the corner is vaguely imitating
one we walked together.
I will see naked light bulbs
and think not of fields, or toes,
but of your head, freshly shaven,
toasting in the sun.
I will discover new things also,
and feel them in my palm,
Then turn to show you
as if you were there
finding only,
after turning,
the place you usually sit.
