Time
runs
out
and
nothing
can
salvage
this poem

(D. James)

Five years ago …
ten years from now …
where was,
or will, I be

Will I be?

Asked again and again
what did I want to be

If only I could figure out
what that me was supposed to be that wanted to be
or even just be

Free?

But from what
or of what
dare I say,
I know not

(D. James)

I catch a toe
on the bedside table

For a moment
the pain brings a
rush

Then a loud burst
of sound

This is what it is to feel
like a fragile old goat

In the end
no matter how
crafty you are
or how many books
you read

You’re still just a mess
of nerves and fleshy parts
constantly being reminded
what it means to be human

(D. James)