Time and time again

Rain taps on the window, and winter marks its ground hound like,
reminding that it still wants in.
The sour taste of the uneven stings on the tongue like acid.
It is nighttime, and thoughts are bridging,
in suspension between the silhouette of two days,
overlaying and coiling,
representing an image that could be but an echo of a truth
- but how to tell apart each one without touching.
A sound apiece, crawling from left to right, muted by the white wall and mortar
it’s nothing unusual, not a sign, no anticipated blast to which running takes off
but a shepherd of the city surroundings,
handful of asphalt on pneumatic and water, of coughing in the shadows, of muted words.
A physical movement, an action expected – the experience of a collection of lesser
feats that can be measured and analyzed with formulas.
All those developments with a beginning and an end.
A fact at this time and an understanding – it will be unchanged every new morning, a value given only by consequences and comparison, every drop falling from a hoary sky
slanted by the muted wind behind the window.
The growing feeling of despair is like a map, a recognition of each bend and turn.
Unfolding every corner with relish,
spreading out before the eyes – a body of cold water that ripples with each movement, with the toes and the legs, with the torso and head.
Stepping into the nameless with familiarity, with disdain.
It’s difficult to point out what’s left of it, all that was required, wanted,
considered a necessary condition.
The moment is suspended, like it would be for a child – time crawling slowly and unconcerned to be savored at that instant and forgotten.
To become part of a larger essence, perhaps to accomplish something.
But this night is being held at gunpoint,
it’s waiting for a movement from the twisted steel after the crash
with a tart taste in the tongue and a syrupy smell all around.
But what is good enough is spelled out in the muted sounds of the room.