I’ve been running around like—well
not a chicken, but a person
with its head cut off.
Twitching on the ground, that is.
I’d spent Sunday listening to Janáček
and drinking Molotov
cocktails at a park that overlooks
an empty river that runs through
the village near the croft
I now call home. Full of leaves it was
and sparse—raspy, hoarse, I mean.
Then I trod softly home,
and today has been a significant b.
just in terms of neurons
popping and snapping
as I lie here prone under cold
and cloudless skies. What is
the meaning of life?
I have no clue. I made mistakes
yesterday I can’t revise/undo—
nor, it seems, can you.
• • •