i sit and stare out the window
stare out the window at the brown dead grass
the dirty snow melting into muddy slush
the mud that is criss-crossed and destroyed with ruts and tire tracks
the empty field, still as a body in a coffin
and the darkening blue sky beneath the pale sun that sets above the mountains
and i think about endings
my face is a cage
and the doves inside are suffocating
in a pile of their own shit
my arms are broken wings
and their featherless forms are useless
in the mud,
in the dirt,
in the silt,
in the pores of the earth,
with the worms,
the moles,
the bugs,
what is the meaning of it all, anywho?
is it part of some grand scheme, some astral plot
to make us whole again
some day far from now?
perhaps, on the contrary, there is nothing;
are we born simply to exist?
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