pathetic than
the goldfish
laconically swimming
through the weak
indoor lighting
which pervades
the lump of water in its
sterile, spheroid bowl,
and perpetually turning
in the same direction:
away
from the ocean it intended
to explore?
Presumably
not you,
who so often spent
so many wild nights
riding
some strange
and subtle currents
of the water-smooth truth—
only to wake up
adjacent to drool
and confused
to find that you'd detoured
right back
to the same prosaic
corner you'd renounced
the day before.
