Just after the motivation to continue subsides,
there is a quiet and cooler path to pass through,
above― the peaks to either side― the shouting
blows across, nothing of meaning captured
just the weight of the brow. Those who want to
say that the rush of feeling, these thickenings and
tensions, lag behind what the mind figures, how do they
account for those emptied moments, when―
racing to the water ahead of me
shedding clothes
is called up― pristine― its detail everything.
I am lost in it― then, like a stumble almost, history
breathes a bit too loudly just as something
lands in me― throughout― like a narcotic lands, but
is just this clench seesawing with shivers, asking
will it take me? and then it does, or doesn't.
Believe anything, whether it matters probably
doesn't matter. So, picking up at weight of brow,
one learns how to stalk the day and kill it, perhaps
starting with a mortal wound, but favoring those
that let it linger for a few more torments, a pot
of coffee on. Pump it up with best intentions, then
beat those to floor crying out to be entertained, but
not very loud, good neighbors. But let's return
to the stormy weather and cave and barren hill,
all designed to turn trapped animal into noble savage
who at least climbed a miserable hill. But the resonating truth
in metaphor is that as we stiffen under ice it seems as if
it's getting warmer, not so bad, just to drift as if one were
not looking back at the airport gate, a montage of sunshine
and something of you is here with me, then darkness.
Dreams that would take much further than tomorrow
are too expensive to maintain.
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