days go by & saturday is a cough you medicate
with an osamu dazai quote:
“[only] the weak fear happiness itself;”
your pour orange juice into plastic cups
at work, while the the parking lot pools
with water that will dry away; & it’s funny
how time exists only when you want it to or don’t;
how people go in & out of your life like flowers;
how the moon shimmered on the oceans loose skin
in Florida that night you got too drunk,
swaying your dumb body like a laugh along the pier;
how the greens & greys, the ripe, raw, bacterial things
that assemble the day in which you, wanting too much,
break experience down to impossible distances
and create your own dissatisfaction out of recycled air;
how we will grow old & strange, & be comforted by the structural
integrity of inevitability; how there are omens in a garlic clove,
a cup of coffee, a seat on the bus, if you want there to be;
how matter is never created or destroyed, is just there;