I’m not listening;

They could be listening from straight roads in t’Kabel.

They could be listening from next door.

In a lot of ways I don’t know me.

I’m 3,973 words into the new year (starting now)—

hardly triumphant.  Thought I’d have more to spill,

more surface to brush, like an archeologist or

detective: brushing for beats, brushing the breast,

brushing for restoration or historical relevance.

It doesn’t matter.

Would it matter if I found it?  Put it in the

Smithsonian.  Put it in the sea.

I’m not listening.

­

I miss someone daily and I wrestle with it.

I miss some things, but I’m best without them.

I miss plenty, but I’ll do without them.