I walk the path up
to the house I do not own
each day in time
for what my body
can yet receive. The gourds outside
the door already unraveling
into mush because of routine.
I worry about the mind.
What I’m trying to work out
is whether my silence is a
a new absence
I haven’t waded through yet.
So I hum in rhythm
with the knife and bread
and the hour goes
and another day unravels.
Down the path
away from what I don’t want
to matter. Time and how
we believe it moves.