how easy it is just to skip a day

tell yourself you’ll come back to it

in that eponymous yet fleeting tomorrow—

and I’m not going to leak into cliche and ask

what if there is no tomorrow—

but what happens when you raise your head

and realize 40 some odd years have passed

between you looking at the sunset

and gazing at the rise of the stars

and through a sigh you think back to Mary’s question

something about your wild beautiful life

that has been lived before you without the words to speak it

and realize how it’s always been

you some feeling made flesh

grasping at hot air and memory

always anticipating a midnight

and a blank page

and a promise of something foreign

coming back to you from tomorrow