The Life of the World to Come
What happens next,
after I catch myself talking out loud
to no one, alone in the evening in the
kitchen, when the echo of my voice
off the corners of the walls only
reinforces that I am alone,
the steam on the windows
mercifully transforming me into
a shapeless ghost, a darker space
within a greater blankness, and
the silence which answers my
question, the only answer that
could conceiveably be correct,
wraps itself around me like fog
and the lip of the canyon that
lies between then and now
suddenly silently senselessly
yawns open, like the mouth of a
sleeping baby dreaming of his
mother's milk, helpless in the night,
his mind filled with the only
truth, the only thing that matters?
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