Today, I hesitate, nothing new,
to write, but I write anyway because then,
I'm doing something. Or rather, looking
like I'm doing something. All
caught up in the identity because it feels
better to have one around these people.
Today, the sun sifts through layers of
silky haze built by pleasant laughter,
over-told stories, and aged brick-work.
I feel like choking on its thickness.
Moving through these thoughts feels more
like swimming blind.
Today, I remember when I thought poetry
ought to be funny.