I am sorry.
I am dripping blackberry jam
on your living room floor
and it is past the time
for me to be in bed.
The finches call as I leave
your house, confusing
the orange-gray glow
of the city for dawn.
I do not like the sound
of them, or the noise
of the 2 A.M. train running by –
all deep bumblebee rumble
and metal scream.
The metal of your doorknob
was cold as I turned it.
I have been walking
out that door for years.
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