preview without a compass

startling what mourning can bring
starling in the bare tree
tossed bag, wrapped around thistles
at the edge of a winter pond
too messed up to be anything but gone

when the laundry is done one last time
when the last shower is taken
the dryer releasing warm shirts
and socks into a cloth bag
a towel to dry with, to travel by.

when the last time you stick
your fingers in your ears and wag
your hands, clown, goodbye, fuck you.

and it seems like stone, these farewells
a spinning needle etched in the last place
you want to go, direction to the first new step.

and the left behind, the ones who will not follow
peace out.