OUT
I opened the window to a Huxley mottled dawn and Hope
flew out.
In bleakness beside her
a floating bubble fills with unspoken mutterings.
There is a whispering from corners which becomes
a full blown cyclone of rage, like static on
my internal radio.
Hope didn’t want to come back in
so she lingered outside and tugged upon clichés
like heart strings.
She played in a band down the road.
She danced on the edges of vision.
She whispered to us about dreams.
Sometimes, I see her reflected in newsprint.
Sometimes, she’s as high as a kite.
Sometimes, she’s marching alone.
Always, she’s etched upon faces.
Often, she’s there from the start.
Often, she turns up late.
Often, I miss her completely.
Sometimes, she just gets lost.
In thought.