In the day room it is common
to catch one talking to the wall
the one with the clock.
There is something to be said for
observing time this way.
Not with words.
I move to the window, I don’t know if
It’s March or April, but contemplate the
rain anyway in the morning, it might still
be May of another year
I can’t remember
today Her name was something
I could not put up with
Her hands take careful measure
making sure I see the way she snaps
the tarot cards down,
like a glass in a drinking challenge
then I get her name from the air
and she says I could love you but I won’t
tells me I’m already tethered to the natural
world by the spirit of the wolf and adds
not for the first time
my heart leaps into the wind
on black wings, so fuck you
she says to me
lastly, looking down
Visiting hours are over
so I make my way quietly
across the room under the
towards the pouring rain
in whatever month it falls
It falls on us all,
lovely broken creatures.