sorrow sounds romantic but really it’s just joy

i need 8 bags 
for the energy bar i just made, i reach in 
to their sleeve 
and pull out exactly 8 bags. this makes 
me feel magic
and destined. is this the mania that i am
said to have?
the ocean swell that starts in my chest and rises 
in lunar ripening 
up into my throat? it breaks on the gravel
of silent vocal chords,
i choke back the saline dream of it, 
my body seething 
in the retreating tide. i need 8 bags
and i goddamn 
grab them, no problem. i need an editor, 
for these words, yes,
and for the form that fills my mirror. the running
shoes still sit
—sit still!—in the entry way of this winter
berry home. they
can serve as editor, my body shrinking 
to the gorilla slap 
dance of my feet. and that woman of a few months
back, she edited 
me right on up out of her life. the words
that once found 
a landing on her runways, well she ran 
away, and now 
they are left, these words, to fall.
homeless and exhausted
in their failing search. it is Fall so it is appropriate
to fail. Summer 
makes me nervous and irritable, perhaps
as my failing is
incongruous to that season of self-assured
shine. i am sure
of my self in the way an eyeless slug remembers
its way through
tailings of slime; this likely could use 
an editing, have i
lost my way? let me ask it another
way, has there ever
been a way to lose? my teeth fill 
my mouth like
the tombstones of old New England
cemetery i once visited 
with regular irregularity. i had a picnic with 
a married woman 
in one of these cemeteries, we put our tongues into 
each other’s mouths 
and felt with such common human banality 
ourselves quietly dying. 
yeah, this is all likely mania; next,
the depression 
of that grave, the way i sunk 
into her body.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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