Every movement whispers some other trace
the cost. I thought I heard it
that heavy engine of regret
roaring in my ears.
I couldn’t ever be just here but am a ghost
Being here am thus not some place else.
At the grocery store I picked vegetables
the ones that shined
made my own choice
about what I’d need to make dinner
& this is such a small thing. It’s almost not even worth mentioning.
But life is made of such fragile moments
& we recognize them we feel them happening
we feel them slipping fast away.
I try not to hate my life.
I don’t have one story.
I concentrate on my happiness try to let it burst
everything the way flecks of hard orange light
can make the day seem more real
& all our mute objects holy.