mistaking
my insouciance
and spates of obsessed
regularity
for weightiness—forsaking
all meaning
to focus
on timing—
in the hopes that
this surfeit of
vacancy and lack
may yet
amalgamate into
a mallet—
a mallet which
one day, I'll be able
to swing
and whack
all those nonchalant moles
of regret
that keep popping
up from these holes
in my feelings.
