I bypassed all the compromise, The first ten problems of speech And the latest, the sharpest, the contest, Then began, having already fallen, To rise just less, weaker than My chore, yours, made else By othering, by day by day, The schedules, the routes, task Whose claim I forgot to throw off, Rising less but somewhat up anyway With a kind of strength for having Done so several times before. I mean all times so far Which is the taste of coffee gone This latest one, and that it sticks Like nothing else has ever done. It isn’t a calamity so much As a disaster that it’s not one. Things already were real, are Never just. Did not just get, Can’t help being so. This Massive ordinary cloud Where I surrendered to Filling out a form in the rain That doesn’t come or does, Sent down or kept in overplus Till the next storm’s approved, The face notified of its context, The sequence continuing west West I said west, turning up To receive some all, To celebrate that share of sense Breaking into day then run After it as through gray games I plan to win by losing only Every time but one, the next To last or after that, though What it’s called when it comes I don’t, I do, pretend to know. Copyright © 2015 by Geoffrey G. O'Brien. Used with permission of the author. |
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