i have said, to pick oneself up out of
a small village and to land in this place, manahatta
it does not do. in the next room over
my lovers whisper of their lovers
or of betrayals that i could not have committed.
this is not the worst of things, nor unwelcome.
the passing cars are scarce
(a thing for which i am thankful)
and the birds exist, at least, if not in color
form, song as in the near-off land that
beckoned me in my dreams.
outside, there are no volcanoes.
not one.
i have said too that mine is not a wanting love
but it is love that i want. unable to weave
such subtle threads, now, today,
(unwilling, i should say; stubborn)
it seems deliriously and swimmingly pointless
to listen in on the murmurs of the friends i have
echoing through my hollow face
as i write poem after poem in search of
such an apocalyptic peace
as others before me
have found.
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