The Fates seemed to turn against me when I hit sixty—or sixty hit me.
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if the pronoun is acting as a subject
most people would probably say it’s only me
I’m running across a pane of hazard
green grass, toward an acrylic pink
Oh, I’m Sybil
I squat low in my wranglers
swig back sun tea
You’re growing
older one hole at a time trying
not to think as often as you want to
about making a hole large enough
to drop the whole world into.
sailed across the pantheon of hours, an early spring of languor beyond time, beyond history, to bring the open fire resolution, striking lightning in the killing fields, haunting chorus rising under the sunk cost,
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a supplication:
supple surplus skin
“You don’t help,” I say between tortures,
and he (because art
is evenhanded, masochistic)
gasps, “Neither do you.”