subtext

People try to talk to me.

I hear, perhaps, half,

then, as they go on, drift,

moved as if by tides.

Alone, most days, slipping

slowly from book to thought,

to roll my tongue through words

plays with incoherence.

There need be notes like stones

left as markers to return;

or bits of marginalia

tossed along the shore

to hint towards an origin,

I can no longer explain.

(October 24, 2025)