The depot

the world is full of empty things
like the part of time in which a road
to anywhere becomes a road
to the places you already know
and, arriving, know
you will know
them not

the world is full of distances like
the distance between now
and the last time
you could not say what was this thing
bursting through your chest
and you chased the pieces everywhere they would alight

but this can't really be called a distance
because distance must be measured
by an imagination that persists through
every thing it marks
and without a distance you can't journey, either

so it was
it slowed to only a depot
where you may wait
for some to arrive
others to depart