the whole day was lost to worry
and so on for three odd years.
they tell me to stay detached,
how does that work?
if i could not drown in things i know
why would i leave the house?
in mornings when the sun sends shards
of light at my head from the eastern
windows where i lie on
my many dawn lusts:
your great eyes and easy and
naked drunken light?
in evenings when the sky goes dark
before its time, six o’clock maybe,
and after lashings of rain pass seems to
reel backwards before the sunset into
the pale torpor of an afternoon that
that could not have existed?
the core of the world is doom
like magma the color of blood
never more than a couple miles
below my feet
and the ground is a worrisome place;
there is no time for irony.
vanish down the canyon of fate
or do so with eyes shut
is the only choice we really ever have—
easy days and friendless nights
slow little towns in nowhere and journeys
so often untaken
unrequited feelings and
uncertain twenty-four year old dreams—
why would i love all this,
is the wrong question, darling.
why wouldn’t i?