innocent enough:
your waking up
to yourself
that first morning.
Then, the endless
imitations will start.
First, it's the sharks
who are chasing after.
But soon, it's: whatever—
you're the one
chasing them.
Before long,
you find you're
no longer enamored
with the passing,
and the waiting,
and all the anxious
blanks. Jesus calls
you boring,
and Satan commands
you to iterate faster
while lashing your back,
as if this were
life and death—
which, of course,
so far, it isn't—
until that one morning
when the script flips,
and it is.
