– still we grow tired

Portland from the park
Chicago from the pier
through the sunset
with my luck
comes the questioning
of my luck.

I have no children
should I not approach
hermit-like
stick-like
gung-ho-if-I-could-like
checkpoints, the wall,
lives disassembled from
buzzing planes and bombs and
milk left to spoil and a did-not-knownness officially
cocooned, media fed?

poking them as if
they might retract.
snails’ anttenae
disappearing into a
shell.

lizardrinking (c) 2010
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