Like the pile of books on my nightstand,
like the ever-falling leaves
in the yard,
my worries accumulate.
Within each there must be a vein
of leaf, or word, or paragraph, or
perfect autumnal hue that
would show me how to
shake off these worries
like a wet dog, or waterlogged branch
in a shudder of wind, or mote
of dust on a butterfly's wing...
If only I had time to sort
through this wretched mess.
May the road to fulfillment be long and steep and smeared with fog, moss-lined, leaf-strewn, rockslide-prone, oft-closed for repair, haunted, the
On a perfectly normal Saturday, the kind where normal humans do normal human things, I log online to check my bank account for fraud...
Whatever touch I had is gone. Maybe I never had it. That would be better. One can't throw away a non-belonging. Can't chase after the dump truck for some treasure that isn't there.
