Is there anything worse
than happiness? When I was younger,
I only shook hands, a grace
I probably don't deserve. As long as we plod
eastward toward the ocean and
its tide pools, slippery kelp,
old mp3 players with Irish names,
the earth twirls, and sighs.
There’s nobody to hold anymore.
I dreamed you were in the forest,
two or three years ago, waiting to sprout
damp fungus between conversations,
and what is a mold but a tool
of self-discipline? And are we then shapes,
or echoes of shapes around us?
Yesterday I buckled down and made
up my mind. Sometimes you find yourself
on the street, not even glancing at your own
reflection as you go along.