Oh, how fleeting it is, even when it isn’t yours.
It has a doorway, many of them, but it is neither antechamber or back door.
You learn that the ones you’ve respected have their own shit.
They feel their share of vibrations when they fly over bridges.
They feel the warbles tumble into their ears like a stone down a well, neither breaking up years or collecting moss on the way down.
There is no other way but onward, no other preparation or speech but “go.”
How cups can be full of either mirth, breasts, or poison; full of iron, coffee, and the bitter transitions between any and all events.
What once supported our backs holds glutes and arrow heads now.
We only know forward and climb. We can cut tunnels through mountain and over riverbed as easily as cutting a fallen tree blocking the path.
We are our own blockades—and detours, too. Kids do not worry about school— history is just a real fever dream or a white man’s fantasy.
You name her Portia and expect her not to feel love as violently as a Roman? To not love the German car?
You expect her not to stand in the garage in her socks, just to feel the air and perfume of your lingering presence?
How her heart burst but then hardened like a molted and shelled thing. Humans try and believe that all processes and states in life run a smooth road or are in neat stages and age brackets that coked-up scientists posited forever ago.
How they look down at us, or up at us from their mire of shit, and smile a smug line. Yet the poets and storytellers roll in their graves. Yet all the mire and scraped skin and shit can be used to page new roads or fertilize old gardens.
Oh the forgotten decorations on shingles and gutters do not make an ugly house. The uniform does not make the officer, the lover.