It seems we are always in the middle of things. This is a part of me I am not proud of, but it is a part of me. I wrote this a long long time ago and along the journey since then I have grown to learn that questions are not destinations. They are signs along the path that will lead you.
My mind is not clear. There is dust.
Eyes blink, shoulders shirk off the waste
of many, many years and I sit down
because the weight is still there.
The dust is still there. The waste is
still there, settling like ash, like snow,
like teeth unconditioned in spite of mother’s taunt,
like white walls lived in, jaundicing,
like dimpled cheeks where there ought not to be
dimpled cheeks. Like time, lost
with an audible tock, a gentleman and his axe
swinging through the block…
Paul dragged his axe and left a canyon.
How did I leave a mountain.