The year’s been one of exhausted sleep,
the never’s roosters jaunting along
the window pane. Is this feeling, exhaustion,
an act or a fact? And thinking about it?
I missed the lesson, I walked passed my stop –
the rain came down on itself, each expired
joy flooding over the curb. The first grimmace
of night and the corner wine, an hour
of listening to a music box, slightly out of tune.
There’s a dance in us somewhere, save our cuffs
and unroll our miserable skin.
Feeling is a fact you might ignore in place
of noises – life eats life, another nail
chewed off its axis and lost among random
patches of grass in the unconquerable city.
Movement is spirit and I’m exhausted and awake
because I’ll miss myself when I join dusk
in its hour of no one. I’ll miss myself
so much I’ll create a perpetual need
by asking “Who am I?” often to the delirious throb.