This is the gravity of the day.
Melting in place between lock and dinner.
A self,
solidifying, sliding in shoes too large,
body and space a loose skin refilling with a hiss.
Night is for melting back into shape.
And tomorrow you will wake, recognize your own reflection,
and there will be the meditation of standing up,
of doing quiet tasks while the coffee brews or teapot rattles,
so many things contentedly bubbling.
There will follow the meditation of closing doors, of key clack.
And soon the contortions and shrinking
again.