the more of me i see, the less of me i want to be. i feel empty and dreaded and dead inside;
i’m a horn atop a pig’s head;
i still remember dogwood, sitting under my porch;
swinging morning-lilies atop the log,
a fresh throw of frogs on the grass,
pond filled with drains of murkweeds,
sadness in my cabinets
and grief in my drawers.
my leg is a rotting log and i am stumps
i am stumps which are crawling with the little maggots
the little white slimy maggots which are crawling under my skin
there are swans all around me
but they are blind
or i am invisible
and i don't know which
i once found myself at a crossroads
i searched within myself
and like they love to say
i took the road less traveled
now i am at the end of the road
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