netzach shebchesed
I tell my brother
about my backlog of
notes, agree there is
no such thing, though
with only one part
to my stomach it’s
easy to forget how
good it tastes to
see past as future,
to make regrets—or
is it myself?—something
“shiny and new, like
a virgin, touched for
the very first time”
The sounds of wind,
of cars, of birds,
of the screen door
rolling back and forth
on its track, surely,
they must be enough
to move me along.
Along with my breath,
which perhaps gives the
most true linear reinforcement.
I jog home with
oranges in my hands,
avocados in my purse,
a friend in Washington.
No comments:
Post a Comment