Correspondence Is Normal

On the ceiling of my apartment bedroom, in my eyeline as I lie in bed, is a smoke alarm with a blinking light, which blinks in a consistent pattern: 27 short blinks, one long. This pattern has never changed. I've taken it to heart over years of lying in bed, watching, as I drift asleep, and it's likely that no matter where I am, or how many years from now, I will always know this smoke detector, its arbitrary sequence. As I prepare to move away from this smoke detector for good, it's difficult to say what piece of information I'm about to discover in my new home to add to my collection of ephemeral trivia like this. What can my mind hold onto there? Foolishly I will look for an anchor, and find one.

Thanks for reading! This year I'm writing poems about moving into my first house and dealing with a lot of drama and evolution in this and other parts of my life. We'll see where it goes.