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