Here- nowhere really.
Oddly and intensely feeling everything,
good or bad, in its space.
The good beyond expiration:
Sour milk—
Still, a sip, see
if it can be savored.
Hope
to find generosity in the aftertaste.
Over and over…
hand to the flame. Sun on the horizon.
There- sturdy ground.
Unshakable. Tangible things.
Impervious to my fickle.
Dream- up ahead:
A yellow balloon, aimless amid peaceful air.
A curled red ribbon– vivacity,
bouncing gracefully from its tail.
It is free as its helium gut
to land anywhere but here,
upon a nail –
Rusted and cold. Tip dented
by past hammering. Ready to
clasp-down freedom, and drain it
like a slave in the fields.
Time for escape, like fog in the wind.
Too goddamn tired now, a broken bone.
Prepared to welcome its restraint, a relief—
Coffin with a view.
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