Someone Else’s Life
It was a day of slow fever
and roses in the doorway, wrapped
in yesterday’s news of death.
Snow fell like angels’ feathers
from a dark new sky, softly announcing
that some things would never be the same.
I listened carefully to doubts and revisions
of someone else’s life, safe in my room of tomorrow
a passing witness to sorrow and wonder.
Then night came and I was quickly
drifting inside that life. I was leaving mine.
Snowflakes continued to fall.
The street was deserted and dim.
Shrapnel wounds blossomed in stone walls.
There was no proof of the current decade,
and I could not recall
the names of faces that I knew
the smell of places where I’d lived
and why I lay alone now
so close to a vast, empty floor,
so far from the sun, so far.