Unable to Touch

Yesterday we were each other’s enemy
and today it’s Sunday.

There’s no telling how we got here
—looking up at a blank ceiling
having been defeated once again.

The autumn light is waning
and everything is left at a distance.

So we get up
and go our separate ways.

You, to Church.
Me, to breakfast,
and to another day of recording
what is faded or is fading.

Something about how the trees move
this time of year.

Something about how the flags flap over the avenues
on the whimsies of the gusts.

Or about how things touch, then are unable to touch.

Later, we’ll come back together
and I’ll have scribbled you a few lines
and you’ll have prayed about what we said last night.