There is nothing that is not real.
Squirrels foraging the bird feeder
in the middle of the worst winter yet.
Deer hunters waiting above the forest
in soundproof deer stands with sons attending
fathers signaling what is to be done;
men in little huts on the frozen lake
doing something called ice fishing.
I will never get beyond my loathing
for living the longest in one place where
I have nothing to give in recompense,
neither money or love, no praise, no blame.
I followed a woman here I loved long
in Seattle, northern California, Massachusetts,
Albuquerque . . . where she keeps me alive.
Nothing ever more real than surviving.
A six-month chill each year. Walking’s hazard
increases: something in me does not care
to change, I am too rushed to take in life
unlived, to astound horizons in mind.
(31 January 2014)
copyright 2014 by Floyce Alexander