I love unusual things & stay in
love with strangeness, have not outgrown
my deficits. Full of holes rain pours into,
I remain. Older, indecisive, unsound.
I am portal, I am process: energy
shining out that no one loves. My pain,
you see, sightistly, is not visible.
What is invisible is unreal, like love,
hunger, rage. I’ve played the terrible lottery
we all play, the odds increase as we age.
You might say it’s natural to disintegrate.
Each day is hot or cold, clear or cloudy,
blue-skied above. Everything is green, or
not, furred or feathered. Done in by weather.
