Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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I sit by a window in a room of night saying out loud
“It makes no difference
that I am dead or alive.”
Time and the sun will place you on the block.
Time and the sun will release you.
I lean back and prop my feet on the windowsill
remembering my youth that never got started,
never killed. Once again I expected to grow
And here I am.
Above my shoes silver lines of clouds,
voiceless, eyeless, thoughtless, committed,
ascend toward oblivion, the door to re-being.
Nothing human comes close to that grandeur.
All things human are attached to the motion.
Little wars pop up like boils and fester.
A mosquito sucks at my arm.
The leaders try hard but no one is
pleaseable. We all want to go back. That’s
our problem. We want it without trouble.
It scares us to look in the mirror
unless we’re beautiful. And then
we go blind.
Just as well.
The worst we can do is die.
I look around and there are others. In windows
to the night we all sit feet up
saying it doesn’t matter.
The house is old. The moon is risen.
The stars come out cold and wise.
The distance charges toward us,
black tinkling distance explosive with days.
It won’t be Summer always.
Like it or not,
a crop is coming in.
David C. Childers