Monday, January 3, 2022


What would I want most 
if composure 
were a sport—

if detachment 
was somehow a thing 
you could own?

Perhaps just 
to sleep more—
like an old deserted road;

like a field 
long since fallow, 
now blanketed 

with snow—to abandon 
every cowardly
thing that I've done—

to be whole again; lonesome
for nothing
and no one.