Thursday, June 18, 2020


So what's the matter 
with a will to live 
which is fixated only 

on the very 
next thing?

Would it really be a shock 
to discover 

your heart was a horde 
of butterflies?—
No wonder, 

the way it lusts 
and flutters 
and longs to play

(even though it knows 
for now, it is still 
on the clock).

I have always 
had a hunch 

that my mind 
is lopsided—but
in that primly aesthetic way,

like the limbs of a tree, 
which are perfect for climbing—

and that my attention, 
when gone astray, 
is thrilled

to be so out-to-lunch,
counting the trills 
of leaves in its branches, 

getting up to 1,
losing track—and then
starting over.