me lying on the deck. not smoking. not drunk. not even high.

listening for a knock on the door by the ‘One’ -;

the thumping of socked feet on carpeted stairs shake the wooden

deck — men picking up their coats, their glasses,,

one a silver walking stick, another engraved car keys,

more leaving, most bandaged, all unknown, but all, yes:

all parting. i don’t want them to

bother me = they know the door

they came through.

they never cease to go; they always do; they never enter,

only bid adieu; never do I see them clamber into basement windows,

or climb pipes, or lie down centimeters away counting cracks on ceilings-

a bedface captured.

they all fucking do that indoors — but the end of August brings

the ravin’ rak-en-roll across the road…or smell of silt…or screaming neighbors

or predestiny in the starred night; as the One yondering towards

the blight.

maybe he won’t come: maybe not tonight