When there is nothing left to say,
and autonomy grows thin and forcefully governed,
take to the streets, live with a roll
of newspapers, thrown out and free
Sometimes life slips down to the bony
thoughts of survival, an old independence
refusing to blend in
It comes down to internal control, a self rule,
and wandering away into what might be
the last freedom, the streets alive
with a determination to open eyes without being
under the influence of anything but morning
scents of fumes and dawn fogs of perfumes
It comes down to waiting for the sun,
and finding food, wiping your face again and again,
drinking from a public fountain, while birds sing
about the lack of good trees.
If autonomy is standing a long way off, you have
to go there, get back together with yourself,
struggle the way you always have
just because
it is your struggle, your life, and you want
to live it.