Alone, I needn’t apologize to anyone,
It is a strange beast.
It would not
To inure myself
To feeling like a monster.
Don’t accept me
The way that I am,
I look forward to
A drip of flesh
Under my nose;
Or my chin,
To be vain in a silly way.
To embrace a hunger sometime.
When my words are not borne upon hope,
They can perhaps offer it.
It feels indulgent,
And then I read others’ writing.
I’m shamed by what they suffered to offer the page,
My eyes, my mind.
Communist interrogation camps,
Brothers addicted to heroin,
Atrocities in Vietnam;
I remember that those are his/hers, and this,
Their privilege, their joy;
Mine to whine like a little pussy.
I’m not unhappy, interestingly, just…
I found a tiny golden die today. On the sidewalk as I walked to work.
On gray darkened by last night’s rain.
A little cooler this morning,
A little heavy mist.
My punctuated gait in shoes that clatter muffled upon sidewalk. A good morning sound.
Backpack strapped on over my chest,
Dress swaying over my walk to work.
I noticed it under flowers growing tall, big,
Leaning over the sidewalk. Earlier this summer among these flowers I had noticed a butterfly feeding.
Take my photo it had cast in my direction, uncaring and devotedly sucking the
Deep velvety petals of the flower, perfume a haze all around it,
Dazing and dripping,
Dipping and swooning, tipping into the adjacent bloom,
All a drunk crawl. It forgot it knew how to fly,
Flying not at all desirable just then, in the fragrance haze, its pleasure to crawl.
I had taken its photo, at my leisure to walk closer, for it noticed me but didn’t care.
I got bored with the die. There is more for it, for later.