I’m not saying I’d not fight

for another day

to frolic amid books and traffic,

but though I’ve dreamed of thatching,

my shingles have been well-hung.

All the toothpaste, all the doughnuts…

I’ve had my time in the sun.

Left on our own,

we’d all taste like mushrooms

after a storm.

We’re called to dirt

and other low things.

But he tasted the sea after she was gone.

An overwhelming sense of blue.

There was talk

of digging to find lost souls

on the other side of the world

but there was just magma beneath

a sleepy world.

We’re ready to blow

but it won’t be volcanic;

it will be a whispering whining

like a popped balloon

when we face our ruin.

Pacing breathing watching

dust roll across the floor

Too many act surprised

at the depths of loneliness

Pushing numbers around

imagining world peace

Eating air and crumbs

imagining Thanksgiving

There’s nothing clearer

than a sky with no people

There’s nothing smaller

than a waterfall meditation

Sometimes we dress up

and play like there’s a tomorrow

Sometimes yesterday looks

and tastes like wax fruit

The best is we can do is

take a breath however we can

By the time it falls dark,

I fold inwards and declare

to the moon, “I am done.”

But morning comes… again

and again, a relentless trade

of breath for thought,

of will versus instinct.

I am fed each day though

sometimes it is make-believe.

It is hard to meet the sun

halfway, though I carry light

within and through the ages.

Was the end supposed to be

a pantsless, snack-heavy groaning board

full of clear skies?

Because I’m standing at my window,

singing a sorrowful song to the rising moon

and yet I feel relieved.

There’s not much to be afraid of

when you see the sun’s dust,

the night’s stars,

and your own hands

for what they are: empty.