How nice it must be to be from anywhere but here.
Everything about me would be the same except
stretched across a different landscape, more or less
susceptible to bad weather, and stepping off the bus:
rain on a day existing among all the others, not unlike
all the others.
But emergent from the smothering a day just in time
to inhabit our participant of the anywhere-but-here
program. A day as witness to, as it will on occasion,
a state of crisis stored and maintained for later use.
Still I find the people expecting a splintering of the whole
place into gossamer acres of sunshine, no matter where,
like if the laws of physics were bent to the will of its
numb and useless observers, only the days of crisis
would be lived out even if just to save them the pain
of unit analysis in the aftermath.
Sound in a dark room and suddenly birds. Plus
more birds. This day says all the others are dreams.
I’m inclined to believe it. Separated by sleep is a
powerful illusion as benign as it sounds. And as much
fantasy as is dissembled at me during the dividing
I can hardly say I am prepared to represent myself at times.
All the others are dreams means I am a museum of them,
and bearing such a history from all the days making up
a life, I may as well drape over my head a blackened
isolation and begin at the fringes.