at fifty-3 I shredded
decades
of journals and files, taxes
burdens weighting-mooring
opting for impermanence
space between landscapes widening
divides
eye-off any prize save life
I tried-try to root but couldn’t settle
at fifty-6 I shred
longing
for where my blood lay
in ether buried scattered interred
I-a
flailing in the figuring
on my own in the quiet
reaching for the buoys
I found I could float
but can’t really swim
II - segue
cutting chords
on glass tables
I consume the sings
a high slow and low
I-b
nevertheless in the stillness
of the quiet I calm
and inhale deep the bright
through eyes wide shut
where existing is a chore
the daily go-about devolves
make no sound
do not move
the fucking fuck
fuckers will notice
then you’ll get it…
something to really cry about