Go out of your house before you go to the bedroom.
Go out the door and into the night.
Walk past the parked car. Walk past the neighbors’.
Walk past the darkened corner
where, seeing nothing,
the wild air says “good night”.
Alone and never showing,
at the edge of the street light light
with one foot in the cold air
the death and delight of not knowing
where your certainty comes from.
Half of your body is hidden from sight.
Your eyes have finished adjusting
and still you’re surrounded by
an ocean of black.
There are sounds now from all sides.
Go back to your house and go to the bedroom.
Go to bed having smelled the night.
This is how uncertainty holds us.
On the street in the wind,
in a blanket in the snow,
saying “Don’t get used to it.”