what matters

you find that your world
can be contained in a box
or two. a bed, a book,
a borrowed light, or
pillow, having left
yours behind with so much
else that doesn't matter.
and when you awaken in
the middle of the night
and you wonder where you are,
this thought sinks in,
like a lead weight
at the end of a line,
cast out into some dark
lake, this quick life,
what was before is over,
and it's impossible to guess
if this crazy move
without you, will make
things right.