the nth

For the n th time you return, fall into it, the sharp descent, the endless waiting, the floating through the unreal corridors and hallways at the airport. The stammering words, the checking of one's identity..is the face the same? Behind the counter she imagines his face from ten years ago, more understandable, less complex.

"Where are you coming from?"

Are you serious?

Points of departure, the line you walk. 

"How long are you here for?"

Keep it vague. About...

~~

For the 5 th or 6 th time you return to Exley's book and it makes sense now. Start, you should say, not return. Twice you'd fell asleep reading it, despite some interesting passages. Your head never quite clear, drowsy with stray thoughts, your mind straining to piece it together. But never beyond 57, that mystical number again. 

But it was that simple: the quality of the print! This text is clearer, well spaced, the page is clean and you see the words, pick up the thread, with greater ease today.

~

The desire to return, see things with greater truth, an image finally finding resolution, gaining sharper focus with time. The inessential removed, forgotten, for once.

~~

The Roding reaching its upper limit, its memory of summer's dry bed remote even as it carries sheets of ice along. Brambles and the frozen roots of berries near the bridge, a system of still-points, like a dream behind glass. A Church spire against a clear northern winter sky, the frost freezing a wave of grass in a startled expression. You find your old copy of Huizinga's Waning. Books and the inner world the last islands of the heart.

You watch your steps, you watch your frozen breath: Buddhism in the suburbs at Christmas.For the n th time-though you've lost count-you wear clothes that don't belong to you...