I see life
like a Christmas 
tree and ornaments 
like little worlds
of those people 
who read me
and at night 
when I have 
my quiet time 
I sit and 
look and wonder 
just what about 
these those and 
that made me 
welcome into those 
sparkly other places 

In me
what’s missing 
in you 
but that
wasn’t enough 
when you 
finally found 
in you 
what was 
missing and 
I became 
just another 
of many 
and any
and all 

When does 
one thing 
become history 
and stop 
being memory
is it
when the 
one carrying 
it finally 
calls it
all quits 
when the 
one who 
made it
mean something 
ceases to 
mean anything 
at all 

We rarely 
know the 
ending of 
anything really 
which is 
why we
keep reading 
and sometimes 
we keep 
repeating thinking 
that maybe 
we might’ve 
missed something 
that would 
make sense 
of the 
end we
stumbled upon 

Laying here 
listening to 
home sounds 
the fridge’s 
ancient moans
and water
running somewhere 
making ice 
and knocks
of air 
that wind
through ducts 
amid tone
deaf hums
of cars
on concrete 
and then 
it stops 
and then 
it starts 
over again