perhaps, one day

winter night a mausoleum,
full of dry cold bones beneath
the tear-less eye
of the full moon.

emptiness.
absent of movement,
absent of light,
of energy,
so bitterly cold.

i worked here once:
gathered wheat,
lit fires,
touched, was touched,
held and released,
ended, began, ended again.

look how temporary everything is,
how endlessly immediate,
how important the morning light,
how withering the afternoon.

perhaps, one day,
i will walk into the cafe,
stand at the counter,
stir sugar into my latte,
and tell her that i love her.

perhaps one day i will leave for montreal
get on the train and not look back.
perhaps one day i will buy a sailboat,
perhaps one day i will throw a punch in anger,
perhaps one day i will awaken in memphis
with a hooker and a hangover and a loaded gun.

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,

one day.