I want to walk around Hastings but nobody lives here
anymore. Pretty soon I won’t either. My home will be
some yellow morning in a place with seasons, a couple
of strips of bacon still scenting the rooms near the kitchen.
Tomorrow I’ll show friends the spots on my tour of Hastings:
the tennis courts, the entrance to the woods, the back door
of the bar where you can smoke anything, the long lightless
road along Reynolds Field. I haven’t lived here for years,
proved by today when I tried to mail my letter in two mailboxes
no longer in service, painted brown but still standing, handled
mouths glued shut. When I come home, the cat relearns me.
I sleep under a mountain of blankets. My appetite is misplaced
and I get lost driving simple places. All this not-knowing
is a sort of exhaustion. All these knots have pull.