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What is Lost, What Remains

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Some days take their time dwindling into dusk,
crawling toward the hour of closing the blinds
against the encroaching dark, muffling the noise
of passing cars and the insistent murmur of it all

out there where you are not right now because
you are here, drifting through empty rooms into
which a sullen sun has been glaring all day
from the sheen of a hazy sky.

But finally comes night, promising the old cocoon
of bed, the comfort of the familiar pillow that will
welcome the weight of your head, and the dependable
book with its marbled marker carefully placed between
the read and the unread.

And that's the nub of it, really—the read behind you,
the unread ahead, and the sheet drawn up to your
chin as you trust sleep to wash you up safely on
another shore where you will continue becoming
though not arriving, never arriving.