Don’t think so much,
When the sand is still warm beneath your feet,
Of busted power generators
If you were meant to toil without fruition
Or what fruition is.
It only matters now that you’ve found
A clear way out,
Options
As you take to the night
To be wasted and thought of,
A slim wastebasket for a book
Of half-hearted poems
To be written
In earnest.
Without meaning to, he falls
Into open arms, the singular comfort of concrete arched
All at once like a woman thick with ice.
another way, and it is dusk now
so abrupt
it took the noise of plans and treatises
out, turned them all into fine dust
or microscopic filaments of
fur so
even as I am sitting
here, these wants –
great loves or dreams;
these have all been flung into
air
floating suspended
until caught
by my nose, and with
eyes watering,
I can’t
stop sneezing