truth be told, i do so little good for this world;
far below my share, mostly think about
mostly walk alone familiar roads, mostly seek
the same old spirits out, wish for when i
finally settle down.
mostly dream unfashionable dreams, houses and
children and a thousand things like that: i impress
myself with the smallness of my hope—
three acres in Highland and someone who
can stand me, i think, you would never hear from me
this is how i sleep at night; can you believe that shit?
spend your life trying to figure out the
endless child in you:
finicky and petty thing, a heart.
it would invent miseries
no matter what you have.
and as parent to yourself, you spend a life
feeding what never stays fed, even dreaming modestly you
almost lose your mind
for what? for a golden hill, the laughter of a featureless woman
yet unknown, for what gladness might be—
but what is gladness really
if it always just might be?