Getting On


It isn't what you think -
not now, or where you were
But just dropping around so much
like a bird, a feather here and there.
So just sit, split upon a cushion -
I mean, it could be a whole
lot worse than now, but not
than it has been.
Cradled like freshly ladled soup
into a mold, all aspic and dye,
the fake color, the tints in lamplight
All the respites along the way - tell me -
Where have you been? Where are you going?
If you try to add or subtract too much
About the women who cut all cords and strings
They'll reduce you to ashes.

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