Rain hooks the backs of offices. Trees walk
their shadows through the park. I miss the bitterness 

of sunrise. Silicone-blue
baby hairs bursting across the sky. I tried 

for years to become the person I wanted
but I was born under an embarrassing sign

and only ever managed to thread scraps 
of intention into my days. Now 

I’m a stopwatch of gelatinous minutes. 
I was made to hold the body 

of the trombone while someone else blows.
The last train staggers away in the snow.

I’m moving towards the spiritual life.