Being was never my forte; cold red wine
and glimmer of herd instinct bearing me into a night
that any fool could travel, if he chose.
I much prefer the moment’s
absence, like the scent
of tulips in the hall and women calling
softly, from one landing to the next,
a moment since.
I never understand what they are saying,
but something they love
is retrieved from the huddle of knowing
again and again, the justice of should-have-been
in place of what never was.
I think of them now as sisters, as I think
each footfall is a mirror where I keep
the secret I never told, a childhood game
persisting on the cold side of away
and should-have-been a house
I know, the way a blind man knows the house
he lives in, blind from birth and every room
laid out for none to see, in steps and echoes.