The sunset was gorgeously flawed
I was even
critical of nature those days, the way the trees
would hand
over their leaves like small offerings. I felt
they were
pushed on me, the way religious
pamphlets on
a subway were. The day I woke up
and ate ice
cream I was burning with depression,
trying to
get rid of the throb and ache of that.
The things
that comprise my mood now: your enlarged
soul, like a
heart out of place, the economy
special at
the local deli, the way the drunks
gathered as
if in a tank at the watering
hole down the
street from me, oxygen
as rare in
them as water. Someone once told me
there are a
small amount of failures required
of each of
us, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had
my share.
Maybe I’m made of twigs, or I’ve reconstructed
my happiness
to match the quantity I think I’m allowed.
If fallow
means anything near what I think, then I’m lying
here with my
defects ringing like a miniature bell.
I’m the only
one who can save me, aside from maybe
Jesus. I’ll
let you know when I’m through.
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