forgery

The dryer running in the kitchen fogs up the window in the living room. The dusk deepens until it’s the color of a hole. What if I could hear the weight that burrows all the trees down into rain? What if I could hear every time you close your back door, each instance when something is suddenly complete? But my hands are over my ears and there is no later beyond what has already ended. Across the street, rain rolls off car roofs. And yes, it's nice in here, the blur and the eternal fatigue, the facts of loss, the delay becoming an emblem I sew on my shirtsleeve. Must I forgive you and pretend that nothing's been won or lost? My alibis are tired. My promises are tired. Nothing but the highest full moon of winter will relieve this worry. It will make time stop, we can go back.