the low spot

familiar hammock,

hung loping

silken tar pit

draping and folding;

a salve of shirked living

soothing until it's not

until it's too heavy

until it's a mountain too smooth and soft to climb

until my limbs rend

salted and wet

slow-cooked into apathy.

 

exhaustion press'd

(rye and ginger, lemon, soda

left half emptied

beaded condensations leaving rings on wood

the same as dark circles

running laps under eyes, carrying bags

chasing elusive sleep)

yet i still rest, eyes open or shut

ambivalent cells that register light as lightlessness

and today as tomorrow

and next week

and next month

 

i never really know how long i'll be hanging here

on luxury gallows

just that it's not forever

even if it feels that way

even if it feels that way

even if it feels that way

 

;