slack
and obtuse,
i step redundantly
through the vague morning,
reaching past the dull strain of lingering sleep
to wonder dimly
which of the following i am most like:
that snowy pond,
a silent, unpolished mirror,
keeping nothing, giving nothing back?
or this empty bench,
a ceaseless proposal,
always so-inclined?
or a proud battalion of flag poles,
resolute,
unpersuaded by the wind?
but then i grasp
that i can choose
which makes me all
or makes me none
i'm not so unreflective,
and i could never be so constant
i am happily irrational,
intensely free to change my direction
maybe, then
just a few dark birds;
pointless arrows
colonizing power lines
