Much of what I write these days
sounds like a rote confession;
yet, I am no savior, even to myself.
So to hear the nuance thicken
around a verb in my own ear,
I must speak a native tongue;
and like all true stories I tell,
I shape myself to a form
which best suits my desires.
I collect what is at hand,
charting all my little failures
as profound, as if the paucity
of my life could ever be enough
to transcend these humble clichés.
(May 31, 2108)