As I Sit In The Dust Again

as the days fall into each other

like bottles off a shelf,

i see —

i’ve done almost nothing

worth remembering.


the poems?

a few scratches

on a door no one’s opened.

a few wounds

that don’t bleed anymore.


it’s not pain that breaks you,

it’s boredom,

and the faces you forgot

to love while they were looking.


somewhere a boy plays cricket in the lane

and an old woman sweeps the dust

like she’s trying to erase

everything.


i light a candle,

though there’s no god to watch it.

and type another line

just to say

i was here.

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