And so it goes:
An endless cycle of need--
fixating ids into Christmas gifts
that we pine for, and like the crane
does the rock, we mechanically lunge for a transient smile--
Rushed. All is quiet in our heads
(all those voices tethering the ego are dead).
We try to emulate the drizzle and make our feet,
our brain, pitter patter and scatter to do the
indecent chore; and we find that, for the time,
we skid instead of smile,
our tantalizing situation embraces our knees with the concrete,
and leaves us sanguine kisses on our elbows.
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