Most of the time I stand around all day,
Suck air, whistle breath, dress, lie down,
Wait for late arrivals, call out lost names.
Most of the time I stand around all day,
Sleepwalk bald streets of the blank town.

Most of the time I read, page after page.
Sometimes I get up, put the pen down,
Face the wall, outstare the clock. Again.
Mostly I mark the time in which to age,
Stargaze the ceiling, eye the sullen town,


If it comes to that, I suppose I could see taking a train
to the limit of a night’s ride, uncomfortable, sitting up
all hours, with the rocking of the carriage an undersong
that would never become a nocturne, the unmoving air,
whiffs of stale luggage and stubbed-out cigarettes—how
sad the telephone wires stretching away absentmindedly,
chair a hard green, a neighbor’s open-mouthed breathing,
the relic of a newspaper splayed on the floor, shoes off,
there a lake suddenly and then gone, now some trees;