Monday, March 25, 2013


Doesn't matter how well you've lived
or if you've lived at all.

There is no realism, only abstraction.

Reduced to its simplicity,
life can be immeasurable,
life can be nothing.

Nature is abstract,
so's work.
You focus and you see nothing.

I like swatches of color,
shapes. I like violence.

I don't know what I know.
I'm about to, but I lose it.

Just as well. Defying death is absorbing,
lonely. I hate to be lonely.

I walk inside myself, get lost,
meet strangers who insist on talking.

I talk, too—to know if I have substance.

I don't. I have torn pants,
sneakers that are worn out.
I use Vitapointe on my hair.

I stroll through the woods,
take photographs of lichen, fungi,
have a close-up of a frog.

I separate likenesses, record them,
forget them, avoid mystery because
there is so much.

I open the sealed letter, peruse it,
pass it on to others.

The future comes anyway.
It walks through me, around me,

produces children who inhabit it,
grow up, try not to be me.

(This poem appeared in The Virginia Quarterly