I should not be surprised
That none of my hurry yields progress.
That working late leads to tossing in bed,
No reprieve after pushing too hard
In the first place.
It was not always like this.
I am the one who watched birds
From the bushes, who was so quiet
The creatures ventured out. I was the one
Who wrote longhand, and put the child to sleep.
Where is all that peace?
I call this eagerness for intimacy, “gasoline” -
But what are fossil fuels? An immediacy
made over millennia, the cream of everything slow
And lived at life’s pace. Everything dead
And unwasted. I can burn up in seconds.
I can rebuild with a terrible patience.
Now begins the long re-training, the painful
Recovery of limbs; determined mobility
After every damning prognosis.
Someone knows I will not be purchased
As an ornament. Here is a lightning rod:
Never struck, never lied to. A nun in wolf’s
Clothing.
--
