All maps did not lead here
and the roof of the neighbor’s house were not telling
you something slanted, sideways, a fall to come, the edge, the lip,
a slipping down.
As if this house were not your breath and pulse, its eaves and siding
weighted to your skin and the appliances did not watch
with suspicion, opening and closing with you
every day in the same t-shirt, the same instructions to the cats.
As if you had a play to conclude,
a comeuppance to render, an arrow to take.
As if all your life you thought you were headed somewhere
and the wind outside did not admonish, battering the walls
with its violent hoodoo, pushing you off-sync. Akimbo.
As if the truth were not eating its sandwich beside you every day
and the voice from your head were not preferable to the voice
from your throat.
As if now were not the point and you weren’t missing it all
in your absent-minded plotting. You have to wonder at all the things
you do to say this is mine. See, I mopped the floor, washed the pan,
inspected the oven for flaws, and that man who walks through the door
every day recognizes you from the day before; he says hi honey
as if he knew you.
As it is, you make believe—As if this. As if that.
Time will pass, and you will be left
with words fluttering in the air
as if the night’s corporeal box did not close
and keep you still.