Not quite knowing what to do
they spend some afternoons watching children,
or when businessmen pass on the sidewalk
they sometimes close their eyes
so their images are held as silence is held
or just the memory of a once familial room.
Not quite knowing what to do, they do nothing.
Days turn relentlessly toward a seasonless
season. People talk, their voices
claiming substance like a plea.
Now watch the clouds drift in Rorschach procession
over the gray haze at day’s end. . .
watch in neon midnight as objects become relics
and faces lose connection to names.