while praying during the supper
this morning, full of grace,
i ponder the angles of the wrist,
dark tongue-in-groove panelling,
obtrusive perspective and perception
that come with emminent departure,
women in and out of my life,
and what it means to remember
something not in my memory,
to remember
in the older sense.
leaving town inhabits lacunae
i have not taken time to shut
and it fills them with noise and mess,
leaves them fuller and suddenly dependent
upon occupation.
a woman i know breaks my bread
since i have been too sick to touch
the common loaf.
she smiles at me and looks away,
perhaps to pray.
i feel fragile and full of air
the way a cold makes you feel when it leaves
and your sinuses are empty, hollow,
so much space inside your head
that maybe you will break.
the same way the elements leave your mouth
and pass through inside spaces,
spaces you always took for granted.
people are only complicated containers.
you see leaving town is like that:
pilgrimage highlights spaces
and the spaces want a purpose.
and the spaces
make you think
about leaving town.