Not quite a crisis or a culmination,
more like a winter morning
when you crane your head out the window,
watching drizzle turn to mist before it swallows
the sun whole - but the ticking clock
still tells you
it's only the start.
If a day is a journey then
I need to find a better map -
I'm strolling in circles and getting lost,
hiding the world in the bags under my eyes.
If a day is a progression then
why are mine so circular, how can I ever
find meaning in this neurotic carnival where
I'm strapped to the chair of the ferris wheel and
morning always leads to night no matter where
I look; and nothing matters, that's the problem.
If no (wo)man is an island then
I need to stop burning bridges and boats -
perhaps I can't escape
my collarbones will smell of sun
and not smoke. Maybe wo(man) is
a desert of thirst. Maybe there are no oceans
here - only mirages and the occasional
oasis, desire mixing with memory
until you can almost hear the bluebird
my throat is still parched.
Spring hasn't reached where I am yet;
I'll be patient. Winter fog still settles
in my bones, and the countries of my body
give birth to no flowers, dance in the moonlight
with no thundering rainstorm. It's cold
and quiet. It's quiet. I could
sleep for months. I could sleep.