A day could be a year
could be a static
always. I have come
this far and I have
lost track of which way
is forward and which,
back.
The stars have
given up their science,
their mystery. They
look like dour dots
to me, or plain paint a
child splattered;
artful graffiti.
At home I think of home.
I turn on the T.V, marvel at
how it feels much the same
back here- drifting off, zero
zone, the limp light
of a fuzzy screen.
Somehow it’s a better ideal-
being far away, missing
those you cannot call
or touch. Propping that
excuse up like a soft,
cold pillow between us.
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