Those undefined obstacles
the divide of the self from the other,
becoming monologue, or is it soliloquy?
All those things we’ve left unsaid,
when you wake up in the middle of the night,
and wished you had phrased it better.
Those waves tucking into the shore of sleep,
are packed with remorse and regret.
Inexplicably at 3 AM, you remember
how you tortured the poor sensitive plant
until it died of exhaustion,
watching its leaves rise and fall.
And what about the kitten’s whiskers?
So what if you were six, you knew better.
There were were other transgressions.
The moon caught in the web of powerlines,
is a full note held on a celestial scale.
An old worry, like those lost trailheads of memory,
a tarantella of dead leaves, small layers of the past.
Whatever we cannot fix comes back to haunt us.
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