“to think is essentially to err”
—Fernando Pessoa
The pattern changes as the weather:
flights directly overhead, if clear;
or off to the right banking in low,
if the clouds hang close to the ground.
Each afternoon from the northwest,
private jets slide diagonally across
my circle’s diameter heading home.
While I am alone with nowhere to go.
I should know better, but I don’t.
Each day, the hours become obstacles,
and the waiting becomes what is left.
The days are filled with possibility,
only to be poured out like mop water
emptying into an infinite night.
(February 29, 2024)
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