other animals

vaguely at two the old argument 
corners me when I’m most unconstructed. 
The gist is blame myself and save the world 
or the other way around, but 
I'm not sure of the next step and 

can’t easily stop the limping 
way I’ve been with crooked circles 
beat to either more or less and 
ever hoping for a chance to walk a 

thin wire high in clean air—but this 
private war—is there a place past 
fidgeting through the fog of flies  

and the oily birds that feast on them 
and make a chore of every banquet