Monday, February 15, 2016


I always know—that the big careful 
things which I build
all day, I tend no longer 
to care about protecting, when the hard
wrecking ball of 

evening comes. But each of the ruinous 
things that I manage 
to conjure every night to bomb 
and incinerate and
obliterate the structures, I also know 

will themselves collapse 
into odd piles of rubble 
again—to be cooled and 

washed clean 
away, by the blue ebbing 
tide—of every perfectly
clear tomorrow 

morning. And invariably, there'll be
no purpose or justice
or function, in any of the 
messes I'm left 

with, but there will be plenty
of the coziest, most
spacious and marketable 
roomfulls of mercy available—not

in surveying the extent
to which those things I've built
still exist, or 

any longer. But rather,
in negotiating—how?