I couldn’t think of anything to do;
I was out among the traffic in the street,
but didn’t make my way, my view
was blocked, and nothing left but new defeats,
and then I stepped into a line of trees
I know I’d seen before, the sulfur smell,
the bullets whizzing past like wild bees.
I wasn’t where I thought I was. I fell
again, through something damp, like air, then back
inside the traffic jam I knew was caused
by me, my drifting as I do, my lack
of self-control, to know just when to pause
before I cross into that other place
that somehow always stays inside my soul.
I wish that I could say a simple grace
would be enough to make me whole,
but I was lost inside the river so I
didn’t move, and thought I’d wait it out,
the night, in all its splendor, the lies
that let me stand there, as if without a doubt.
In the morning someone came, or no one came at all.
I knew somehow, I’d wake and be alive,
but never be the same again, a fall
from grace so hard and fast, I can’t aide.
That night I died, and it was not like dreaming
although my heart kept beating, my brain a whir.
The world outside my mind stopped meaning
anything at all, so you can’t see me through the blur
of monumental metaphors the doctors rig
like precious metal crosses
that hang a name around my latest jig,
no peace, and never mind the other losses.