Last Horse-Pulled Cart Leaving for The Edge of Town

I speak of water too much,
long to sleep, late to wake;
I tell myself tales,
how I once and still grow gray, 
cursed with worn paths, moonless, grown over.
But now, a drive outside my city 
is like the ocean in my mouth
blessed with deep horizons.

I went down to the old movie studio,
sat alone in my hotel while
cars moved backwards,
white noise of anxieties;
the people I wanted to know moved to and fro,
and I tried to decide if I could belong.