#3

Brake lights guide me home. You in front of me, pulling that pop-up
trailer with your oversized pick-up truck,
You move too slow I say what the fuck and then I adjust.
I glide/bump along.
Haunting new Allison Krauss & Robert Plant song, repeated, sends me home.
I think about lost things, books and books and books-
and music. Things lost (and they are merely things, I understand this)
toss and swirl around in my head. I have moved so many times-
three times in two years in New York alone-and so it makes sense there would
be these lost things.
Still.
Does it sound like I am sad for these lost things now? As though I lament
their non-presence? I don't, no, not really.
I feel a little bit sad though, and actually in a few moments lately
the sadness has been big
but it is for the things that aren't things.
Little pieces,
non-negotiable, irretrievable evidence of my self.
Shit it's so confusing. I want them gone,
I feel sad that they are. I demand newness.
I smile when I feel it happening and it is.
I know
this too must go into the night because-
because that is what you do with grief, with hope-
you put it into the night
"with the music
up above my head."