Another spring breaks; the air is heated before its time,
and pushes down the earth.
It’s a noisy time in the world;
Words fly through the air, colliding in my head; I know their meaning,
but I don’t know.
No, that’s not it, not what I meant; I meant, I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter what I say, because whatever I say,
What I don’t say is what’s heard.
And “Do this” and ‘”do this” and “do this” only
make me yearn to do that, instead.
My face has always been different, too much one way
and not enough the other.
I ignore it when I can, or I stare at it in disbelief; thinking of how boys are still boys
as men, and that any of them ever found me at all is a mystery to me.
Now, the new boys in black, at night,
profane judges, slip by me on their way elsewhere;
I am not for them any longer; I am odd, irrelevant,
I am too careful with myself, and then I’m not at all,
and it doesn’t seem to make a difference either way.
I wear my jeans rolled, and boots, and whatever else I like.
Rolling around in others’ disapproval like a puppy in mud,
I grow old, then young, then old again.
At the beach, on the sand, watching
Waves gather before a storm, and throw themselves against the shore,
then slide back home, spent.
I will throw myself against this life until I’m done; please slide me back home
into the waves
when I am spent.