Helen Marie Casey

They outnumber us, those who have left this place
where we tell ourselves we are at home, comfy even,
in our wanderings, our musings—which are a form 
of wandering—as we visit our thoughts, turn them,
push them over, reconstruct what we think we were
thinking, and begin again to find just the way of saying
what we have always wanted to say until we couldn’t, 
or wouldn’t, for fear of not getting it right, the saying
of what is difficult to shape, the kind of challenge that
living our life is if what we really want is to get it right,
to know what and where and whom and not to lose
any of what we have found that totally fits all the needs
we have amassed though we know all of it changes
somewhat as breath does, in and out, again and again,
a rhythm we cease to think about until the in and out
change and we can’t remember how it used to be, how
out and in scramble and in and out know more than
we do about rhythm, about seeing the world, about
remembering to say what we know when we should
so the ones we love can hear us across the, across the,
across the