Forty-third day

And there, right where the lights filter
cigarette stench thick,
on plastic chairs, stuck in a blur,
common, alone, thinking

Alone; and then your mind your world,
cosmos and towers dark
towering in your head; yet still
unhurried, loneliness

In infinitude; don't ask what
is worth the time you have,
to make westing, chaos the womb
grave of Nature, a lone
nightingale floats life calmly,
quiet strings shiver, her song.