It is never enough. Language
cannot accommodate and
we always know the story anyway.
We read, we write, and we eat.
Together and alone. Our many selves
commingling with the parting clouds
and tidewaters. It is clear to
no one and to all. I write. I stumble
and stutter. I have no
where and it is everywhere.
I wash dishes and pick up the
rest of the pieces. And me
a vegetarian. I always lose my
way. Sworn to the yellowed page.
Soldered to a lit wok. Somebody
(we, us, you, him, them, our
selves, the passing automobiles,
gold necklace, currency,
libraries, business cards, pumpkin,
gossamer hearts, plainspoken
words, diversionary tactics)
swaggers by a tall parking meter,
spits his gum out into a swollen
trashbucket. This, our mountain-esque.
