a rush . . .
as if all that was tall straight and stable
were now bending.
twinkling
a sleepy amazement
about all that men built
from the window of a late cab
speeding home
I no longer care enough
of what will or can or might happen.
the tide of events
spins irreverent, a sacrilege
toward a private ending.
my own?
how lonely that would seem.
.
my children are my children,
the die is cast
they need me or not at all
at times my wife is a person I cannot talk to
before her I was unfocused
I had principles I was naive to
in love with strangers
eyes to the heavens.
now I focus on the earth ahead.
yet know I lie buried somewhere
gnawing to find purpose
the source of my drive
what is it?
it wakes each cursed day
setting me on a journey
through a disconnected world
listening to a story I cannot hear.
