to be jealous of odysseus, for one

nothing feels better than putting things away, mugs stacked on top of each other, books standing upright and proud, dust tucked into corners, intimate treasures in their homes hidden from the sun

whispers into the nights, turns around an empty room, repeating the ticking of the clock, the march of the celestial circles following an invisible path

many things feel better than putting things away — a delicate kiss on the cheek, a ship returning to shore and arriving, the soft sweep of a leaf fallen to reunite with the grass, the soil underneath, but we bargain with so little these days and ask for so much — to see a familiar face, to tempt the clocks to reverse to complete our journey across the ocean guided by guilt or lust

we settle into the routine, the familiar, the scared and the sacred to ask why, for the stars to reveal their secrets, the moon to expose all its seen, the witness in the bright of night

to take a midnight odyssey, to sink ships at the shake of a tongue, to whisper I am nobody, afloat and adrift, painting the pages ahead and drowning the pages behind