Resurrection

Tuesday evening in your pyjamas,
the apple juice is drinking nicely
as yellow light bounces off yellow walls.

The slow-motion machinery of the evening
rolls on.
The dry socks, the fallen cushions,
the router's blinks, the air conditioner's hum,
scratches on the surface of life.

You see the blank pages on your desk
and think to yourself,
maybe poetry is the language of elsewhere,
of the hereafter.

Just as you do, as if on cue
the past gathers itself into a huge wave.
All of the twenty nine years,
all of them.