We travel at all times: days, sets of nights skewered
by earnestly buzzing suns on metal trees
days already half worn with expectation
of all the time in the world.
We walk home perched on the lip
of believing that this is all there is
or this is all there should be
or this must be just the very beginning.
Remember the sounds.
It is past time to grab the home bus.
Looking back is a pastime
of the regretful – no better dancing partner! keeps time
perfectly always before you
like you could make something of its emptiness
if only you weren’t yourself.