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.