Beautiful Soil

I am filling the space
you left behind with a few things
that I forgot about while you were here.
My bed is made of old hair and books.
I put on my flip-flops and this
little sprint of light from under the door
flickers loosely around my thighs;
it provides enough light to make a sandwich by.
Bread again. A vacation would be pleasant,
perhaps somewhere with pencils
and paper. Thin ducts of water
streaming from a legendary dish.
Waste time considering the mortality rates of cute things
versus that of rough hewn things. Underestimate the value
of past hugs. Consider stopping that stuff now.
I will focus on the incessant pang of the new now.
I will stop making the animal sounds and
raise my voice in song instead. A crystal clear vision
of the present shivers down my spine.
How long until I'm on beautiful soil?