200/365

wouldn’t things be different if nothing was an it?
why do you insist on the poet solely enduring
the depths, bringing back mud, forgotten pebbles
and broken glass from the bottom of the well,
hands covered in blood and mud,
dilated pupils and ashen faced,
swinging on a dilapidated bucket
the rope barely holding weight.

once again i’ll need
saffron and rose water
to reconnect to language
wilting on my tongue.
the recipe too complex.
the outcome untold.

i’m tired of making sense for you
carving meaning from pain or beauty,
from these mundane twigs i sweep up
from the floor while you participate
in the economy, go on vacation, post to social media.

my friend is an addict and baring the brunt
of your art in his basement in seattle.
the roots of a blooming life in the sun,
a broken heart wall on guard for clots
that could kill him.

wouldn’t things be different
if nothing was an it?
read that in a book today
not sure what to do with it.