Today, I got sick of asking all these questions and
so I sat down on a grey cushioned hotel chair
among a group of bodies filled, like mugs to the top,
with honesty and sadness and loudness. Still, I was sick
of wondering the answers because all
that I seem to want anymore is oblivion. I think
therefore I am forced to suffer with the idea
of a self, floating continuously like the
fog on a stage as it drifts between the heads of
the audience members and into the ventilation.
Today, I shiver in the Autumn air, acting out
a withdrawal from
satisfying similes for codependence,
when I know that
salmon swimming up stream are bigger men
than I am.
And when the blades of grass quiver and freeze
in the cold blue morning dew,
I will think about poetry and sigh.
Even though my soul's silver blood runs and dances
into the arms of camaraderie, I fear, the way a
squirrel fears winter, as I shake the hands
connected to new faces that I am not opening doors
but climbing a ladder to a diving-board.
Today, I look out at the dark sky through
the antique glass and I dream of dancing;
I watch as a car passes, swishing on the wet streets,
and I return to my question-asking.