i have this dream
in which i kill every thing in the house:
the plants, the pets, the shadows.
i remain alive because i am outside the house,
outside myself, dictating death
to the weak and softening. i have been here before,
waxed inside this block of malice, shaking.
if every action starts with a thought, a seed –
i am growing a fucking garden.
i talk to myself in the early morning hours,
walk myself through the rituals:
washing, brushing, brewing, feeding.
eating has become so tiresome. if i could
just take one tiny pill and be done with it.
they say toward the end of a long run you get a sort of second wind,
a rushing of air, energy, purpose into your lungs, body, mind.
i’ve been running for a long time now; i’m starting to disbelieve in
second anything. maybe it’s like getting lost: if you had just gone
a few more meters you would have seen the sign.