This says come, but do not come in. There’s salvation
in never arriving, but none in never leaving.
The hairs I find on the pillow are white,
and only my own. We notice what’s not here
without naming it, my hairs and I. Movement
betrays now, but thinking does not. If a bed is not
for sleeping, I don’t belong. Night
is for looking through, not merely into.
There is only another calm to soothe me,
and it waits behind its window. That’s what
I tell my found hairs, who are gone now from
my shinier head but sometimes listen.
The store inside is empty, so I need not worry
that there will not be enough of anything.
There’s a different neutralness in it.
How long is not a useful question.