What can I do
with conjugations
of being— beyond
a fool’s confession?
I’ve been here before.
Hours hurry past the window
like soft grey mice
skittering between shadows.
The sun slowly approaches
the eastern horizon
as if a mendicant
with an empty bowl.
My impatience vaults
over the obvious words;
I have difficulties
reading as a result.
I crib lines from books
lifting them out of context,
then go down paths
that refuse to exist.
subtext 