Methodically walking because it’s the only thing I know how to do
as I contemplate leaving you.
I know you’re not the one but I still want you to be.
You’re too different from me.
I just want someone to love;
to love me.
To hold hands with down the street;
But don’t cover me, nor devour me
or make me feel incomplete.
Life’s just not that neat
even with all the straight lines I see
as I walk from line to line
on the squares of sidewalk.
I gawk at the way we follow lines:
the timeline, and tick-tock, the clock.
Even the cigarette in the hand
is a line to our death.
Oh nonsense, nonsense, none of this
makes any sense, like the yew and the moontree,
some great powers that be,
an inverted universe
where I am a poet
and the lines follow me.