The day ends with white noise.
The day ends with a syllable
—– covering the edge of his tongue.
The day ends with humidity
—– hovering over a displaced Miami
—– as warm in December as in May.
The day ends with a long yawn.
The day ends with a long echo
—– resounding in an empty bedroom.
The day ends with a long whisper
—– surrounding an old white pillow
—– as comfortable as a burlap twill.
The day ends with a semester.
The day ends with a sense of
—– slowing, or something dying.
The day ends with a sentiment
—– growing like California crabgrass
—– between unkempt sidewalk slabs.
The day ends with a discovery.
The day ends with a memory
—– towering over a protracted sequence of moments.
The day ends with a lonely man
—– cowering in a lonely corner, poring over moments
—– discovering why all the women he loved married
—– other, better men.
So what does that leave him with?
What breath of a thought purses his lips?
So what? So what? So what?
—– He is not enough, not enough, not enough.
He feels the vagrant element enter
—– in through dischordant notes.
—– in through fragmentary dreams.
—– in through half-remembered memories.
He is sorry.
He is sorry.
He is sorry he is not enough.
He is sorry on behalf of the self who is sorry.
He apologizes on behalf of the self who is apologetic.
He is sorry and apologetic.
He knows he is a rupture in the structure
—– of well-balanced rhythms and concordances.
He knows he is a rupture in the fabric
—– of interwoven agencies and self-celebrations.
He knows he is a rupture. He knows he is a rupture.
He knows he inerrupts. He knows he is death.
He knows he is the day’s end.
He knows how much he doesn’t know.
He knows how much this doesn’t mean.
He knows how much for which he cannot say “I’m sorry.”
