in my dream
he admits to being sad
and I reach up
and rub his back
as a fogged up window
the clouding returning
almost instantly
but comfort still
in the motion
the point not
to make it stop
we reach
his door and
we pause
I have not
been in since
I say
the sentence
unfinished and lingering
what do we do
with our sadness?
when I wake up
I am not sad exactly
more burdened
lightly with
the feeling of
knowing
of having
lived.
And thank god.
I have found my imperfections again.
And they are what make me human.
And I am so glad
I am human.
the lasagne looks almost indecent
in its insistence on abundance
oozing ricotta into the plastic tupperware
glaring at me
and writing this poem I am sure
this place never finished my sentences
but nothing is lost these days
everything is found the answer is laid out for you
without you knowing what question you were asking
(in all likelihood a different one)
why do I want to kill something.
the cleansing wave of destruction
an alternative to perpetual anxiety
and anger at things I cannot change,
I would take some abundance now.
I would take some, and then some more,
and then some more,
and then some
more.
