And, Here We Are

It offers itself in strange chunks

and has no

math equation for me to hug.

It's made me foolish. I slosh in the same pattern each day.

It's the farting dog on the carpet or

the asinine purchase

that rests

crookedly

on the edge of counters.

It's finding asinine

snuggled between "absurd" and "brainless".

I am made of more than this.

I am made of northernness.

Forgotten materials droop silently at ankles

waiting for the racing heart or burst of bucket.

I am foolish. I strain my head to see bits of light and colour through hands on face.

I wouldn't have it any other way.