I want to lay things to rest for real,
not with a taut face.
I run out of side ways.
I’m a mess walking
over yellowed gingko leaves,
past a rejected hot dog
with just a bite or two missing.
over cobblestones and tar
over cool earth,
hereish, everywhere, but in a different way now.
I still feel the lure of last trains—
to put myself on a corner, where nothing’s open,
outside a concourse
out there with the night swimmers,
tiny fish and swans,
great spirits in spent bodies,
to be awake and in the mix.
like the deer who scored a slice of pizza from a lidless trash bin.
left too much undone maybe.
mysteries of the moibus body.
there are no words for this woozy becoming,
no location that you can trace,
no certain line of desire.
tell your mom.
lift an arm for your whole family
as you hold a candle.
sam coren 