Day 43

The voices no longer speak
between my middle ear
and perimeters

it's been years 
since that conversation
from the outside

now it is cyclical
I see that now
never the down

but this is the down
not sad, or death peering
but still to me and the flower

my lackadaisy planted
in streets I rarely visit
but the nostalgia for night

on wet streets
eats at me now.
My mornings are taken

with pause
I examine myself
"what day is it?" "what is your name?"

"what year is it?" "who is the prime minister?"
as if I could actually catch myself out
ah, that moment will never come

sleep, this surrogate for pharmaceuticals
and walking makes me wail
until I make peace with the outdoors

feel my body's thanks
for some safety sake
my senses now prefer the indoors.

That, I would have never predicted.