Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.

You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really

you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;

it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding

you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,

you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever

so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.