And in a fury of optimism, I am off.
March, the only reference to the clock,
“It is dark here.
There is newness where you cannot sleep.”
I am waiting.
For that sudden ease of optimism, again
With my coat on
My heart, sagging, like an old elephant’s face,
only just as grey, speaks softly
“It is dark here. You have slept here before.”
You can speak up now, I say
It is only me.