i am damage per shot,
a weakness of the lung,
collapsed, i fold into
fours and then submerge
as easily as a freshly
baked American apple pie

i am a 24 hour diner
without a place to sit,
something like
a sack of grains
pouring into closed
mouths and filled
bellies

it begins, another year
around the neck of
two thousand

starving, i wander
the earth in search for amazing ***,
a fertile egg to implant my indecisions
and imperfections in,

one more breath
against the tidal waves
of suffering, we all continue
down this path

not as if it was chosen,
but as if it came naturally

littered with multitudes
of ideas,

i fall into place,

the center of a crooked
angle