All those hours and what did I do?
I didn’t hurt anyone. I roamed room
to room, across the pine floorboards.
Often sat with my eyes half looking
out and in. I stepped out
to the garden, pulled a weed
or two, counted the roses blooming
and the monarchs ambering August sent.
I don’t know whether to kick myself for all
that waste, for letting days just slip
away to dust, no record. I hardly spoke
anything meaningful to anyone. I couldn’t
take you in enough. You there,
and I couldn’t take you in enough. One hand
weaving through the old dog’s chest tuft
of fur, the other holding a book,
misreading the letters as bones.
The windowed sky sewn
with contrails. Lower clouds pile up
in clumps. Shadows fill the spaces
between the dust. Lain so long now
in this bed, the flowers grow sideways.