Ten and a half, Saturday, dusk, curled up on the Saratoga hills,
hugging my knees, imploding,
watching the house, believing the house
was going to burn; the hate was hot enough to make it so,
when I ran out.
The hole in me opened then, or it closed. It flapped a little.
I emptied myself, for, you know,
Whisper to the thunder.
Do something else futile.
When everything is critical,
nothing is not about me.
Everything in this circle is suspect:
you, me, the circle.
Roll ten thousand more days on guard
and all sounds are the white noise of self involvement.
Even war gets boring.
Roll ten thousand more days.
I look around now at the spent matches at my feet
as if I just woke up, sleep in my eyes,
and wonder if I can hold myself at bay
for a minut,e, maybe tw„o,
to hear you as if I believed you
weren‘t talking about me.
Here it is: I want to be off this ride, round
and round, and stand still, arms at my side and see you
and allow you to hold
and I want to love that.