for the last time, the last touch
of April on my window mornings
has chilled to snow. Tomorrow
the floor will sway or level
under another’s foot and steady
the dark will gather on me
in a warmer state, continue knitting
where it stopped.
Then I can turn,
casting this house off finally,
my memory loosening each suture
inside my head.
Then I can carry it
like any wound healed, superfluous
this life, the next, the next, the next.