Poem 150

tempstate

I set my life on casters

intent on leaving,  certain

I would soon be gone

this resting ground, meant

only to slow the heavy inevitable

but I was stayed/weighed

by my own lovely fears

of moving, now that I had stopped

ah what trouble to begin again

my own limbs so clumbsy—

hapless with wheels and I

so wooden with apathy

the stubborn barbing of my soul

exchanging flecks of essence

with the things I hoped to waive

and the hollow carved from wandering

was at once a pleasant whole.

—ECW