in place

In a way I’m always catching up. In a way I’m always being named by my wake. The words turn over, always starting something, tumbling down the page. Maybe I meant to say it different. Maybe I’ll get around to reading it some day. I move around in circles, sprinkle in some punctuation, spice it with detritus and a little weeping salt. I shuffle from day to day, tripping over dog and cat, stirring up the dust. From word to word, from room to room. Every day breaks about the same.

We are gathered by the implements, the signals that seem to see us. The mirror of every moment, the rattle in the cough. Each breath pressed against the window, looking out, seeing in. Each breath the water clattering the stones. We pitch and toss to toggle tenses, plural to singular, you and me and the vagaries of the tide. The sand sliding beneath our feet, the sea seeping  between toes, every shore constant contention. There in the impression left, there in the ought that’s not.

I am where the coffee cools in clumsy sips, I am where smoke threads each breath. The music tumbling down the walls and the room is lit at unnecessary angles, the somber dust and the glittered ceiling. I am the punctuation put in its place. These dim rooms, these narrow halls. Locked away without shelter, alone with these unwanted words. By the time I look, I’m left behind. Once I see it going, it’s gone.