Unfolding Pattern

The smoke from the incinerator
reflects on the small window
across the street

Shit.

I hope none of my limbs
or organs
burn in that huge white chimney

The croaky poetic voice
of Dylan
occupies the living room
out through the door

My girl
reads her diary
the one she kept in Australia
three years ago
memoirs
from the days
of our introduction

The drizzle falls
the cat creeps
the trees lean
and the pattern of the day
unfolds