Notes About The Poem
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THE HABITUAL SKY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight's inkwell spills across the city's throat~
I count constellations through smudged glass.
Not stars, but fractured lights:
the neon pulse of pharmacies,
an all-night laundromat's hypnotic spin,
the blue-white glare of screens
where others scroll, unknowing.
Forty-three windows hold my vigil tonight.
A silhouette moves past one—briefly—
and my breath catches like a hooked fish.
This hunger maps the grid:
Third Street to Elm, Elm to the river's bend
where headlights smear the rain.
Years fold into this ritual, thin as tracing paper.
Friends drift off, whispering unhealthy,
while I refine my atlas of absence.
No shrine but the mind's relentless projection:
shapes in fog, footsteps in empty halls,
the echo of a laugh that wasn't yours.
Magnificence lives in the ache's precision~
how absence carves its cathedral
deep behind the ribs.
I chart what vanishes.
I am the archive of almost.
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