pentimento;

Never even considered that it could be so—letting people in just to

have more folks to let down. I can’t tell who’s the victim, since I didn’t

ask for these new people. They just show up into my life as if they’re

meant to foreshadow new chapters, or maybe they are the chapters in

and of themselves and I’m meant to be the masked sidekick. Who knows?

I’m slipping on the stirrups, sun settling down each time similar

and sadder than the last.

My teeth will break if I bite down any harder than this, thinking about

this—a sunny day post sunny drive—inserting myself into the world

ever so slightly, illustrating I’m still immune to the style of contribution I seek.

Should settle for a career where no skill’s necessary; into a life of having children

to raise, forms to fill out, bellies to fill other than my own.

Would be better than feeling like the dead flower absorbing criticism

while the delightful flowers get plucked and placed aside.

First there’s the substance, then the tracery, followed by the repainting and

pentimento. Dumped out of the poor man’s tip basket was I, and onto a canvas

over previous brush strokes.

This time the thrill could kill me. It tastes like a residual drip.

The angle of this dive is away from the water, splattered down and around the rock face.

Then cleaned up.