Sometimes we don't mind the brash company
of a rusted iron gate, and the dimly
lit stairways. All of a sudden the waning
soul is varied like a train of oblique
boxcars passing at 3am. (And you
know it isn't going straight to anything,
that the conscience is still filling the bedroom view
with the opposite of sleep). The mind brings

the old memories to the reality
of starting again, even though the old
self rots like a carcass in the street. And
tomorrow a mountain of doors will open
and close everywhere while you face the fogged
mirror of morning, and wipe it with your new hand.