Am I blasé? Am I rough? Ugly perhaps/soft
and unspoken? Have I no
grace? Am I rude?
Is there a space
that I take?
A volume that is
intrusion? An intrusion surrounded by air?
a kind of inappropropriation
a kind of kindness even?
Am I here beyond my slot – my brief,
my brief of time? Have I, fate, outwitted
you, crepuscular, crenellated? Did I really
veer fro’ the path?
Was there a path tha’
veered from? Are you in anger now,
looking back to block me from openings that
open and I can’t be through – little tricks that make me veer from openings and sunrises and sunsets and blue skies and grey skies and holding close to soft things, sweet things, feisty things ...
Am I all open now, but cannot be near the opening,
cannot see them for what they are,
cannot take but have to ‘be there’?
Did I hit back when I should’ve,
LIKE expected was, absorbed, received as token?
did I hold within, and to within,
when all the arrows
and I let them lodge
in veins and skin?
Have I coursed around them? still breathing
arterial, pathing another course – holding on,