In the afternoon
I hate myself most
garishly, as all
nerves frayed
with split ends, all noise
nails rubbing slate
I'm tired (of myself).
By then-Between us
at least, there is space
room to know that
it is not the nadir
obstructed with sunny optimism
what Others see, outside of me.
In silence, I seek serenity
I try-I appropriate-I displace
I operate-surgically, extracting-
a locality no longer near.
I sense us coming together,
a second in passing.
I pretend not to recognize
myself anymore.
When the skylights dim
my movements are lighter;
feathered words, pillowed prepositions,
untether thoughts,
the contrast crispens.
Finally,tension snapped-symmetry shatters,
I am now freed from my toxic unity.
Image by Hans Andersen Brendekilde [Public domain], A wooded path in Autumn (1902) via Wikimedia Commons.
