Yet no one seemingly around. Leaning crooked
over the pavement. The inches of night
pressing down heavy on each eyelid. Peering in
through the patterned curtains. Wishing he could see.
For the life of him. Inside. Be able to name
the programme flickering on the box. Count
the cigarettes left unlit on the nightstand. The bones
of an animal, eaten. The number of times they have made
and unmade the bed. The accuracy of their piss.
And then the stairs.
The wind blows. The rain enters. Things get lost.
Yet he finds. A sensation similar to being kneed in the gut.
On coming to. A story is established. The breaking
of the words that broke the bones that converged
behind the eyes. A Wrong Place Wrong Time situation.
And this nightlessness finds.
A reason to leave the lights on / off. A short drive
to the edge of town. The turn to the main road.
Littered with primary colours. A ceaseless uncertainty.
Not so much neglected as never found. There is
no need to take flight. Or find. What it is he thinks
he’s looking for. Our view is slanted. Partial.
Manipulated. And yet we keep looking.