February 21, 2014
Between these three points of love
and sloth (mostly the latter),
I flounder. Resting, without laurels,
restlessly. Pausing between pauses,
to inventory this harvest of regret;
to consider from every angle of unease,
this permanent rut… to forever name remainless,
staring at a curtain.
February 12, 2014
This death, as opposed to my other deaths,
feels dangerously like spring.
A catastrophic waste of time,
but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
February 7, 2014
At this point it would be impossible
to make up for all the lost time.
I might as well try to settle
for a serviceable desperation,
and strive, at least, for resignation:
the long hard process of resigning myself
to the choices I made
by not making a choice.