Four months is long enough

for the cat to have calmed down
for the walls to have warmed through
for the walk in the dark to the toilet to happen on autopilot
 

for me to know why this town is a ghost-town

to have dug up the history down at the foot of the hill
to chant the road names in the silence of my mind

as I see them from the windows of the bus

 

for me to leave the cutting of the final cord

to turn my back on that town by the sea

for the tide to turn and turn and turn again
washing ashore the bodies of the dead

like bottles corked with scribbled accusations

 

for me to have established my lines of supply and demand

to have established a routine, the better to feel bad about when broken
to hear the black dog’s bark from the far side of the tracks

and know that one can change the frame a thousand times

without ever altering the picture

 

for me to dig the same old hole anew

to feel at home

to wonder, once again, what that word really means

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