because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.
Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.
I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.
There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.
I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.
I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.
Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.
I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.
This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.
It doesn’t matter.
Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.
No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.
I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.
I trip over everything anyway.
It’s winter and I miss the sky.
The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.
On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.
.
.
.
