I started thinking:
What would I say to myself (if it wasn’t too late)?
You know, to the fragile pieces
that I’d like very much to
point fingers at with a crowd, impress them!
I could show them—
show how much I’m not like that.

In so many mirages I can still
go and sit and blow smoke
in the cold with myself, feeling
so many things unraveling in chapter 6
(when I have to choose whether
to fight or stay with Andromache)
flustered and failing to find a friend in my own words.

Maybe I could pick up the shards,
or say something pretentious?
“They’re better left untouched”
But it’s wrong to leave everything
so I’ll pretend an oracle told me to
pester pleasantries and good, and
pretty, pettifogging alliterations.