I sit
here tonight,
no jukebox playing.
These
are the quiet
hours in which
the world
persists
despite itself
or my sense of it.
Earlier, sun
on my neck, I said,
“I will never be a scholar.”
What I meant was
I feel meant for
nothing.
One
watches
with questions
as the moon
moves
through
the ocean.
Where
was it one
first heard alone?
Memory wastes.
Love slows.
I have
a flask, some shore.