On and of a Saturday afternoon
set out, find the way.
Wednesday night phone calls bleed into the weekend
without a word, without a sound,
without a peep, quiet as a mouse.
Mice can be heard rattling around in the attic
picking at old bones, speaking to ancient ghosts
that have melted in the sand
like a dark precociousness.
These are my phantoms, this is your attic.
I’m looking for my lover’s car
in the dark. Where’s my light, any illumination?
There’s nothing here, nothing new to me,
all I see is all that never was a black hole of nothingness that confounds and interrupts and
I’m looking for the car of someone I don’t know