It's time to sink or swim, put up or shut up,
but here's that early morning light again
to work its way into my brain, that mess
of tangles I keep sheltered in my head,
& my legs are bending now because I'm a man
sitting on a bench & sore uncertain
if the resolute will is what's called for,
wondering too if the clouds are the ones
that have it figured out, white sheen
tending gray even today, in this, with me.
Beyond the shadow, a shadow.
Just in the nick of time, I realize the ache
I've been feeling is a lingering shot in the arm
that shot itself out, the world set afire
then quietly quelled. Believe it or not, I disbelieve
a lot. I don't think you're even listening
though I write you poem after poem, O you
whoever you are. When I travel, I move
off the beaten path; I flap past clouds.
I am my own soul, buoyant, & all this talk-talk
can't stop me from knowing I'll float or drop.