The Balcony

So I am going then, to whatever keeps track
of how often the found stay for the ever renewed.
And the problem of my expression, when it sets in,
assumes a knowing look, a cold compress just around
the eyes, rather than a face of breathing, staring out
at those watching the film as it goes on, eyes closing
when light resumes, or seeing nothing for too long
as the woman lies there, moving in bed. It’s here,
something keeps treating the noticeable a little while
longer, until it quickly rids itself down to its last midst,
drifting until standstill, the lateral spread before stone.