I am cramped into a cloud that is lined
with bookshelves, laden with yellowing texts.
The people crowded around the table,
some wearing glasses, are too intent
to hear me circling around them,
or to feel the smoke that is trailing
from the cigarette in my disinterested
hand, settling onto the backs of their necks.
The little hairs which are called to
attention and then wither in battle,
die, unnoticed by their captains.
No one sends out reinforcements.

My dark green pants sit low on my hips,
exposing my skin, permitting my thumb
to rub in contemplation. I am looking
for the man in the corner, the one with glasses
low on his nose, his pointy nose. The days of walking
have not yet wearied me, but the seekers
and the maps they have laid out and huddled over
become more trivial with the passing of time.
Their fingers twirl along the contours of countries,
and their lips stumble over the names,
rattling loose their teeth.

The pellets of ice the cloud has been throwing
lie in piles, mixed with my ashes.
Kicking through them has soaked the laces
of my thick black boots. I have a feeling
the man is not coming, and I will leave
empty handed. I could go back
to the twisting oak tree where we first met,
outside of time, and filled with the smells of spring.
But that would be misleading. Suddenly,
my legs feel broken, and I am falling.
Through endless haze, I snatch a glimpse
of his socks which is enough to remind me
to keep searching in the morning.