Predictability 


I look for returnings,
coming home to the same house
& learning it has not moved
in my absence,
the total agreement I have
with the family clock,
its soft gongs throughout the day,
(that has no sense of passage)
& the return of the seasons,
hard rain on the roof,
midnight dreams,
the certainty of night lights,
& how these things have not failed
& the knowledge there are others
who are as I am & that I am not
alone; there is always the desire
for the nameless, as if desire pursues
desire for its own sake,
& my human routines, dull as they are
to others, are things I count on,
the whirlwinds that arise
out of nowhere & make my concerns
nothing, along with every future,
& the imagination that tells me
there is such a thing as itself,
the assurance of good intentions
even tho’ these may not turn out well,
& the daily expectation of something grand,
as if it, and monotony itself
were companions actually taking us somewhere.