Tuesday, October 3, 2017

ELBOW ROOM

I choose
to believe,

for every hard problem,

there exists
a soft answer—

a balm, a sleeve
to salve
this raw funnybone,

my own
small brittle locus
of universe.

Every now
and again, I like to kick

my own ass, so that no one else
has to—

nap
with my clothes on,

so that it doesn't count
as napping—

insist
on a few

things, even though
I don't know how to;

like:

One—no value is intrinsic.

Two—any cage I feel fine in
is not a prison.

Two,
two and a half,

two and three
quarters—all our goodbyes are,

in an increasingly
finer and

finer
sense—gradual.

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