The blackness of a window when lit from within

If space is nothing but undulating ebony
another Waiting for Godot theme
bleeding into the iris
then transforming
shorter bones with heavy head
meals may never come
early hours same as late
crucial conversations never held
diminished capacity murmurs
imagined one there passes
vastness expands the pupil
cease to click the metronome

Winter months

A heavy drift leans against my car
from the snow in which we're too old to play
and asks if there was some place I intended to go
mocking flakes dancing down upon the hood
spinning their way in dashing cuts across my forehead
I spill into the bully cold wet seeps into my shoes
insisting the question now with sleet and
me shaking like a secret begging to get out

I've been having trouble getting to sleep again lately

My eyes come open and
somewhere in the darkness a clock ticks
at least in my memory since
who does analog anymore
I lay on my back until
my legs are too restless to stop trying to run
telling me I'll never get far enough
away or close who's to tell
I'm barefoot padding now
into the closet for a pointless change of clothes
can't change the other things
may as well cool off a bit
I only realize as I turn
off the light and close the door the voice
calling out to me is missing
asking me if everything is alright
I sit here typing as though
the sound could replace companionship