>notes from a low point on the road


(Will I write poetry
when I’m old
or am I already old?)

The old narrative
isn’t holding, it’s sliding.
Using a hoe
to crosshatch the ice.
Tacking foothold as I descend the slope.
Falling anyway. Bruised.
My thumb, ruddy tumescence.

Inner fatigue, anhedonia
Paresthesias. Surface irritability,
Meanspirited outbursts, easy tears.

Ah, but now I can’t
drive backwards.
I’m so afraid that
in this story, my deep
becomes a shallow nothing.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s