He sits in the waiting room
of his life. The birds halt
their song. Crickets absent
themselves. There is no season.
On his bike he is riding
in place. The landscape
speeds by in the same loop.
Over and over the past
examines itself. The weasel
stares and stares. He can’t
see him. He can’t hear.
The arm of change lowers.
The lake reflects itself.
The body is its own kindling.