in the spaces between these gentle windows,
cedar floors yielded against the senescencing winter light and
i knew for a moment that i belonged
and everything that should be was.
an old friend shared a long time ago
that deja vu is a nod from time:
we are where we belong
even if for just that instant.
but Trust in that is only for myself,
only lying solemnly across 70 millivolts for miles and miles and
winter drafts will cull a thousand annual regrets
and lay them to rest in the whimper of creaking walls.
we stand here in the late dawn of our lives
exploring the extent to which we’ll dream
and grow into spaces dreams scaffold,
held up by lines between light and shadow.
we’ll grow, i think, at least age,
if we let it