These days, I have [bad word] a collector,
Tender of the flimsy, yellow, and still.
Putting one foot in front of the other,
I take the formless to heart, and I fill
Pots with dirt and myself with cold white wine.
Utterly beside the point in straw hat
And fussing with flowers, I am consigned
Neither to here nor there, to this and that.
Long since the Furies cried, I’ve been alone
For gods don’t rejoice in the death of two.
Doggedly, like Sisyphus and his stone
I push, but second chances are so few.
When I stumble, kind eyes avert their gaze
And we fall each time I look back, these days.