Some mornings I read poems
and my first impulse is to remain silent,
as if even the simple act
of conversing would further complicate
a world continually unfolding before us.
Perhaps like an observer on the outside of a field,
perhaps like an observer on the outside of a field,
the field has somehow clouded the space around me.
In moments like last night, one can’t help but wonder
about the sharp edge of a year and the dullness
of them adding up, one by one. It’s certain
I’m not the same person I was back then and even now
I have a temptation to swerve this life off
into another one. If life is a flight
where I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion
then I can live with that. After all, what choice
do we have? An observer on the outside of a field,
I am a different person altogether.
I am suddenly standing
there with you, your hand touching my arm.