stillfugue

The door, not heavy, but my arm
won’t open it against the moderate
closure spring, and desire strikes –

Suck me down 17 stories, through
the blue cements of underground
garage, through the wet clay until

I turn into chaotic French Onion
Soup and resigned to be beaten
by the thousands of personality

punches, ready to bend and flow
with all of the slice dragons who
think they are human. I look at

our entrapments of tired journeys,
and I hope they don’t dump me as
my age shows, dump me into empty

gutters where it’s only suitable to
drink and to die miserably in the
clay with the furry bunny souls.

.