Feeling symbolic, my "I" is entangled in
ephemera, trailing it down the avenue
where the afternoon isn't absolving.
Nervously the wind wonders why
nothing I can see feels necessary.
The sun is obvious as a birth; what
follows me home is sheer malice,
held to be holy. As soon as it goes
I'll examine what's left of me, then
that'll be that: another day relieved
of importance, sent into exile from
all the words I'm afraid to know.