Human Lot

I’m amazed we haven’t crawled off by now. Later we could go back and cross things out, that way we wouldn’t know where we came from, the shapes we asked to be bent into. Sinatra’d be okay again, mother the same distal approximation, the sea still trying to spit it out. Sometimes your sleep is different than mine. I can’t catch up. I don’t know—there are voices tangled outside. Wind wants to make me correct something, the refrigerator says something needs to be pushed further from the sun. Out where the sunset ends, they’ve installed a graveyard and where it rises, some automatons bash together mellifluous metal tubing imparting a festive contusion to the usual calm disaster of getting out of bed. To find out why life has this glass sparkle at the end of a dark hall. To find out why the paper skeleton holds its hands demurely over its crotch. Did it fall that way? To find out how we fell. There is a name to wake into and music to sleep through. To find out where the blood comes from on the towels. Old friends, I believe your betrayals were inadvertent. To find out if my heart is unruined. Father, are you out there or was your corpse accurate?