Fasten
that once becoming entailed this known room this window, and its breath of what’s cooking for others, in other places not here, unsustaining the same bronze way the bronze walls sustain – that, after all, we become our selfs eventually only the lines engrained in skin from such sleep or the renewed way we say how was your day to simply mean, I wasn’t there, I wish I’d been – that stillness is a shape you inhabit with sleep without meaning a thing, but so the time flows around your veil, not thought of but by turning at half-closed doors, to wish myself back to you – slow pulse, closed eyes, entangled in mechanics & sheets’ dope, the blind birds swell against blue as a day washes the brickwork clean, hearts have only so many beats to count down, & don’t know.