Gieta

It’s night on this side at this hour.
You are penniless and dying
In all likelihood, but you’re loved,

And with all the terrible things
People are doing to people,
To the world, and the world to them

At this instant, it’s peaceful here
In your rented room with your bed
Made of an old futon ready

To warm you again, tinnitus
Mingling with a new recording
Of ancient airs, only mild aches

Like familiar mice in your bones.
You’ve rolled down the blinds and nothing
Will pull you from words, but not yet.