I’ve roped myself
out of another one.
I’ve left my favorite dress behind.
The way we move from crash to crash
is like springing beasts, and I can’t take
credit for the forward march.
I allow myself this gravity
because I think it makes others
feel welcome. You know, we can’t always
be discussing our latest greatest find.
Down by the old accident there are those
nice people without hope. They can spell
out everything they’re feeling
without the help of poise.
They can see until the river bends.
We like one another when I am
piecing my dress back together.
They feel my pain.
They know what it is like
to keep stitching in the name
of dumb faith. That always
renewing stoppage. That falling
on the top of what’s
next, blocking its boring
Nobody thinks they are going
to get anywhere,
just the pure blank doing,
a floating marquee
on the stream.