The seventh day

I don't know what an ending feels like,

and that's because I've never let myself

feel one - I learned in school that

on the seventh day God rested 

and if someone as omnipotent 

as him can catch a break then surely

it should be easier than this
but if you never stop going
maybe you'll forget where you started -

maybe you'll forget
that there was something before
this migraine of a memory at all

and man, I think I just need some time
I wish I could crawl in between
the spaces where calm hides

but maybe those spaces
are a worn out CD on a rainy day,
a t-shirt so old you forget where you got it;

maybe they're you:
your run-on sentences
and how you remind me of Christmas hearths

or they're the plume of a Virginia cigarette
or realizing that every home is new
before it's old

and to be honest, I'm sure that
in the same way that the universe
moves us all towards each other painfully slowly,

I am moving too: the saltwater
in my eyes is not the sting of an ending
but the painful wash of gravity,

the tide that nudges me along
and I'm sure I've seen God resting
in the moments when you brush my lips

and I pray to the church that
gave me these nostalgic butter fingers:
always losing grip on the people I used to be

but I wonder that when you ask
a chicken where its egg came from
if it will reply

even though it knows the answer.