leaves falling,
air cooling, scent of
burning bridges.

he is not ready
to give up
yet.

he’ll give it until the weekend,
long enough to let another storm blow through,
and he’ll wait to see what’s still standing
before he lights his last match.

finally i have determined that
what it has meant to me
to live by poetry

is that i long ago gave up feeding
my bones in favor of
my eyes and ears

and when i eventually needed the bones
all i could do was hear me crumble
and see me fail and fall

but the view on the way down was perfect
my slow collapse resolved me beautifully
into a helpless cautionary tale

get thee to the gym
and give up the pose
while you still can kids

no one with any sense that they might have a choice
should ever have to do the things
you need to do for this to be your life

honestly
living by poetry is a load of crap
and you are better off without it

leave it to those of us
who are dragged to it
kicking and sobbing

leave it to the dead-eyed ones
the sharp-eared ones who give up
form for function

the ones who are called
to fail at living
in favor of noticing living

road after road has been
hard on my feet.

long stretches of slim shoulders
that fell off into ravines.
falling rocks. rumble of thunderstorms
miles away but not far enough off to disregard,
frequent flooding,
and no overhangs beneath which to shelter.

most steps felt like staggers
and most of those felt like sins.

but i’m sitting now above a valley
that looks like it might slope
more gently down. i see smoke over there
by a silver oxbow.

there is such an urge to tuck my head
and roll breakneck down into
that place. i need that peace
so quickly and there are so many things
i need to say to whoever’s down there.

and god, my butchered feet hurt so much
i am bleeding into my chest.

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