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The Weather Station
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I Could Only Stand By
You could go for hours months and days, in that half-hearted pinched kind of way. And you don't get too often to the bruise coloured lake, to stand, hands in your pockets.
Sometimes you don't see nothing much there, sunken old moorings rusted out stairs, and white sailboats against the sky, not really knowing what you came there to find.
Not the building's concrete spines. Not the bitterness you always can divine and pull from your heart like so much twine, ravelling unravelling, ravelling fine.
You got pretty lost there in your own mind, pathways to hallways to doorways blind. All through the winter I could only stand by, watching you wake to the hardest kind of trouble with no guiding line, no guiding line.
I stood beside you; thin as a kite, wincing in the winds cool bite. Telling me you'll never get nothing right. Laughing as you said it, in the low sunlight – so brief in November, and impossibly bright.
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