It’s the street lights going out,
like a trick the second time,
and it’s all these oily lines I’ve left
from pooling in a basin,
just washing up the sides.

It’s the roots under the pavement,
something moving in the background;
it’s a jacket on a hook behind the door,
all these things I could’ve sworn I’d figured out.

Depicting my ascent, I guess I got too far ahead;
watching steps, I lost my count—
I thought too hard about the end,
and when it comes, for sake of pace
I don’t believe my blurry eyes;
climb a step that isn’t there, falling far,
far, from no height,
and I fall so far behind.

It’s a paper with the answer,
edges soaking in my patience,
though I missed a crucial digit,
still an honest calculation.

It’s a stick between the spokes
with a sudden change of light,
and in the moment that I thought
you might want to stick around,
heard you turn and say goodnight—
I was still one step behind.