Physicists all draw different pictures
of what the universe looked like
when time switched on,
or what it will look like when it ends:
cosmic heat death and collapse,
or a long, drawn-out drift,
stars wandering off
into the cold. You don’t know me
well enough to hurt me
yet. My kitchen is still dark
when I come home. I still leave
my house without knowing
where I’m walking.
Some afternoons I end up in your living
room, and you look up
from your book with a stranger’s face,
and I’m relieved
to feel lost. Tonight I will walk
the city for as long as I can, and drift back
to my porch before we met,
and I will go inside,
and you will be
the chair where I sleep,
the television filling with snow.