I go here or it comes to me

Last night, I was a little boy looking into
A lake. I saw the shadows of old,
Dirty fish things and the muddy
Floor turning from the night’s rain.

I closed my eyes and these things came to me:

A hanging woman, her neck knotted in the
branches, her white skirt caught in
the leaves, her face blurry in the wind.

the gleam of a small brass
Handle, shiny and new on a dusty,
Locked drawer with nail marks
On the wood.

An old man on a gray cart behind me
using his hands to roll faster and faster -
I can only hear him -
his knuckles scratching the ground.

And nowhere is there breathing -
There is no taking in.

I feel tired
from all these years of
night torment.
And sometimes when I arrive,
they are no longer there -
they have moved into the day.