i know what is wrong; i can measure it by the length my brethren have walked. there is a sound i hear just before i close my eyes. i often wonder does anybody else hear it. i hesitate. if I’ve taken a trip on all i seem to think i am. it surely should not matter.
as i am
we should go back to holding the beautiful child
beg on humanities street
if we ignore
the toiling hands of the past
are we old enough
is one question i ponder as i slip into a pseudo-sleep
the second is who will hold me?
and here in lies the dilemma
i sweep yesterday under the rug
but the dust of yesterday floats into my nostrils
i sneeze yesterday into every corner of the room
and any attempt to clean is futile.
and so it is