Moving

A glance,
a lance—
no going back—

Did I close my back door,
my lights—

to a day,
closed-in bay
and boxes,
marked with numbers—

I sit,
the floor is cool.

looking out the window
of a place called mine,
at a scene not yet—
not yet—

while I recollect—

Did I cancel the paper,
the water,
the power—

the familiar
left behind—
yet,
as much mine—

Did I leave a forwarding address?

as anything
I unpack—

today.

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