Each landslide begins before I’m ready now,

somersaulting into a full-service problem before lunch.

Sun rays spear at eolian clouds. 

So many burials meted fresh, 

even success is a distended white song chipped out of the air 

by the lovely birds of hunger.

I have to aspirate most of my interactions now,

choosing when to debate and when to wrap the anger 

in a smile and nod to biopsy later. 

I hate having to clawback everything that was not

said or done out of grace. It is later. 

Results: wisdom in all the situations I can no longer change, 

tired terror for the ones I imagine facing, 

flight from the only one I ever have.