Sometimes I think it’s gone.
That maybe it got up in the mountains
of Virginia,
or left on the bench at a roadside diner.
I feel so weightless without it,
like I can do anything, be anything,
freedom.

But it’s never really gone.
It always hitches a ride or grabs onto
the bottom of my pants dragging in the dirt.

That little ****** named Heartbreak.
He still knows how to weigh me down.

If I  could do some other thing,
I'd take it up, unhesitant,
Give up this self defeating game
Of rugged words that finish slant,
Rip off the face of wind and sun,
Renounce expectant casuistry,
As if we'd really just begun--
No sacrificial history.
Whose will can ever be defined?
Forsaking words for altered skin,
Stretched tight enough to bend the lines,
Where like a thief the blues come in.
Such thinking born of hollow bones,
Whose yard collects a set of stones.

Drop a marble,
Down swirling hole.

And follow it all the ways.

Twists and turns,
Which way is up?
This is how, we spend, our days.