In the half-emptied parking lot (it is dusk, it is
just now snowing), there is
an inarticulable feeling.
Sometimes the body
moves without knowing movement, so occupied
is the mind in its wandering. It wants (the mind
doesn’t stop) almost desperately to match up
a sentence with the feeling that preceded it.
Even when this is done, it is unsatisfied.
(This is the disconnect. This is the living mind
living outside of time.) Recalibrate. Look up
and both ways. Return the cart. Now the hush
of snowfall — answers deleted
as each flake settles over the asphalt’s yellow grid.