The Day Becomes An Empty Road

a very patient man who stands out in the snow in the dark because his wife asks him to

There is nothing
round or full or happy
about the heart that forgets
where it lies.

It sits out of habit in soft, wet meat
held up by bones,
held in the sway of an old mind.

It is a tired thing.
It is a slow thing.

The day becomes an empty road disappeared to a point by the dark.
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