a day still enough to journal,
like the quiet of eyes filling
with dark highway, ninety miles
from gasoline, when you're so close
to the sky that the stars reach
down to lay a cool hand
on your forehead.
perhaps a day still enough
for first person: after yesterday's glut
of games, today filled with
a hermit's chores: dishes,
floors, exercise. I biked to
my mail, but did not
open it: too exciting
for this dim night. home again;
then dusk; then the sky reached
with rain loud to this
beautiful, foolish, roof.
on days like this, others feel
far, for once external,
and my own actions feel
within grasp, falling
through each layer
of canopy: headache, skull,
hair, air, roof, tile, rain,
leaf, cloud, finally,
the guilelessness
of vacuum.