beware of maya

too much to pick up and pack up.
knives and guitars, too many of each.
books and magazines and paper to sort.
clothes to donate, discard, fold, burn.
until now i did not realize
how much life i’ve lived alone in this room.

the bed goes, the table goes,
the flute, the hairbrush, the drugs go.
i ought to be able to find
some more of myself under all this
once I’m done, but what there is of me
wants to just up
and go, leave it all behind.
i don’t care to be that much more
than what i am
anymore.

question: how many knives
does one man need? question: how many
guitars does one man need? question:
how many books, poems, clothes,
does he need?

answer: apparently, enough of each
to make him forget all the others
for a while.

i want to close this door behind me
and run weeping from this house
until i lose everything, and that’s
where i’ll settle down.