I hurled across the ocean, after all, and those things should take time.
I sleep, involuntarily and repeatedly,
and after a day maybe I wake up.
Does a thing become strange from too much looking?
or is it my mind racing, pouring out through my eyes?
it comes as a surprise:
I can spend hours, days, alone
leaned over the bicycle handles and makeshift drafting tables
ink stained hands, snack strewn kitchen
it's urgent when it's urgent,
and the days move slowly, resisting hurry
when it's only me.
despite the looming Fall of not knowing.
I think I can be okay today because of the Just Enoughs:
space to strew
bouts of company
phones to answer
food in fridge
sun in sky,
cash in wallet
yes, that's it. always. that's the one.
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