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.
