Elastic Distance

Departure begins
with luggage limits.

A scale claims to decide
how much of one life
may pass into another.

The house has taken on your absence –
like damp.

The dogs make rounds
as if another door
might open onto you.

I’m in twin minds.

Your mess is gone.
The hours return to me.

Yet, my brighter half
has wandered
into a black forest.

Freiburg promises efficiency,
but the trains are late.

Bicycles annex every junction
and draft their own constitution.

Practice defeat
with courtesy –
it saves time.

Life will come in scraps –
a receipt,
a bread roll,
a corner passed too often
to ignore.

Belonging will seep in like ivy –
patient,
persistent,
indifferent to your consent.

Heavy days will come –
bureaucracy,
sulking experiments,
hours folding in
on themselves.

Remember
that home has not vanished.

It waits.
The key still fits.

Go on, then.

Cure cancer in the morning.
Drink the beer at night.

Shape your mouth around words
that only end when you give up.

Stretch the distance –
it breaks only
into song.