slither and crawl
in the deep night—i can forgive—most everyone
you wake me up—hungry, asleep-ish
worried you're gonna lose me with this indifference routine
below misery, below sea level even
in a town where there are signs everywhere—small gestures
i worry that these arms aren't really you
and why you do this, and this, and this (when the clocks don't care)
it snakes in like that
whole days of useless
tomorrow keeping secrets like a crab
we're told to hunker down
get it right by so many seasons
to get up each day for life's little 'and then's...'
but isn't the mere act of showing up enough?
dredging ourselves from the thunderous deep?
moving our batch of worms from one room to the next?
and it struck me again—just like that
(those clever boys freeing spiders from the pool)
that "aren't we all just a mystery to ourselves?"