Another bus passes. Nothing quite happens now.
Snow’s nearly gone, but it’s still cold. Drove to the city,
saw horses standing on the edge of the sky,
heads cast like heavy anchors, but downtown
there seems to be a few more birds, flying somewhere,
over that pawnshop on Wyndham we visited last spring,
your old watch you sold the man for 50 dollars.
I go inside to buy it back, but my memory feels
different to me now, as if I had swallowed every ounce of it
down the wrong way; maybe we walked in another place,
was demolished behind our backs, or maybe you never
really gave it away. I don’t want to believe in this faith,
that time runs out, then somehow goes on,
but our endless circling still circles in my body,
and I feel the tracks they leave in the air.
Today is a mask of yesterday. Behind it,
it’s not dark, but there doesn’t seem to be any light.

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