Thursday, January 28, 2016

PYRRHIC VICTORY

Clenching and unclenching my teeth
and gloved fists—to purposely
hijack

my own fight or flight response—in order
to keep warm as I
walk

obstinately homeward, repeating: If only—
I knew more.
If only—

I could learn the trick. I would flap my down
jacket. And turn myself into
a book.

Instead of going on like this. I could then,
quite literally—forever
live

on—in the best parts (the fine plastic minds,
wet furtive hearts, and brown bruises
of voices)

of so many lovely future generations
of women and men
of my

callow species. But—at what terrible cost
comes that thought? It's currency
better spent

feeding some mouths somewhere, or at least,
fixing those snow-hungry holes
in my street.

Speaking of which, I think I just
walked—right past
my own house.

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