Mass is immaterial.  What matters

is to keep moving, find the return. 

The answer’s this way.  Days like that

I felt it hard, but this is worse –

 
the wind could lift me, rain’s like stair-rods. 

Somewhere, a voice is worrying old songs:

 
The answer’s this way, this way home.

They want money, but my pocket’s empty,

except for some notes towards a poem:

some rhymes; a first line: ‘mass is immaterial’;

 
some synonyms: destructive, damaging.

To get to where the sunlight was,

 
The answer’s this way, this way home. 

The back road’s fine.