We’ve been complaining about the same thing for as long as
we’ve been complaining which is long. The boy lowers himself to the floor
and on his knees, jumps. I wanted to write a poem to the future
unborn whose air I’ve been using, to write a poem to my dead mother
whose air I’ve also been using. At her stone
on her birthday, we talked about landlords. The hills held
new corpses, winged ants swarmed a name. It was fall, I needed
sunglasses, my son was excited about the sky. After you, says a young man
with low boots to an old one in a coat. It was good to be born
at least at first, says a woman with a four-footed stick. She makes her masked
way
her silver earrings sway. I hiked a hard trail and sat on a ridge.
No amount of sweat or view seemed to ask me to live, but with them
I washed my face.Discussion about this post
No posts