The Companionable Ills
The companionable ills, short heavy breaths
with which I force the wind into my blood,
chill and whisper- that I am not 'complete',
that my youth has 'run dry', and yet this poison lets
me the world unfolding with unforeseeable possibilities:
the jut skulls of mountains, fields of ripening wheat,
ubiquity rising like a dove above the landscape
and thundering down along the troubled feet of the city,
I am at home with my lonely sorrow.
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