maybe this time the soft rhythms crackling
inside of my head, back where it’s dark,
can come out ungarbled, untangled.
hidden questions asked in silence have
always wound up garish in the light of day.
each reflection became an arrogant pantomime,
lisping forward, wheezingly, to frighten children.
but. this audience will perhaps be different.
a single petitioner waits outside and has waited
rather a long time, rather without agenda,
rather unafraid. and. i too am different now,
after all that love of loss and loss of love.
look: just do this. don’t overthink it.
expect nothing – less than nothing – and wait.