bidding, i’m right here

when the world
sleeps, i ask if
i am crazy. this
can’t be a fluke—
one says: Spring,
(next year); another:
Fall, this year. (o am
at the end of myself,
God.) first is furthest
year, closest distance.
second is season
bidding summer
ado this year. i
can distract
myself, eating
pretzel goldfish,
Canada Dry
carbonating
my insides
until i cry.
crying for
being mis-
understood.
how many
questions
fill my mind—
who will help
so far away?
can i live far
away again?
why does it
come up there
& not here.
maybe the
lady was right?
my brow will
curve down
the more
i look at
every care,
stead of
anticipating
peaceful hither—

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