The screen wakes

before the morning does.

Its pale light

settles across the room

like winter finding

the corners first.

Outside,

someone is sweeping leaves

into a careful pile.

The wind undoes the work

without apology.

A sparrow lands

on the telephone wire,

waiting for nothing

I can name.

The internet has become

a place that remembers

which doors I pause beside.

It places them

back in front of me,

again and again,

until they resemble

my own thoughts.

Some afternoons

I forget

which opinions arrived

like rain,

and which ones

grew quietly

inside me.