after week,
the circular path
cut by my
bare feet through
the tall grass,
though narrow
as it needs
the circular path
cut by my
bare feet through
the tall grass,
though narrow
as it needs
to be, grows deeper
with largess.
and is death
but it works
like a champ
This peculiar
marriage
of weedy strangeness
to certainty
looks uncouth
from the macadam
footpath
of expedience—
and is death
to Morning
Pages of course—
but it works
like a champ
when you’re
obsessed
(if not cursed)
with repetition
and the search for,
not the best
solution, but
the most particular
and accessible
plan: never guess
or catch as
catch can, but
do not just try
harder, either—
try harder to
resist less.
