Who are these people

Who are these people

who am I

each passing one another

as a blurred, faint goodbye

I want to last

and to laugh and not limp

but this is the end

of a leg of a wimp

who found out who he was

when he was convinced he was nothing

only to find out

he was less than that something

for he was those people too

those who walk and wail

and who open themselves too loud

to little or no avail

save for a brief mention

in some briefer poem

that was hasty and brutish

and incomplete without the tome

of cities and histories and

the drinks before dinners:

all the things that mattered

when living as sinners

*

beautiful,

beautiful,

the view is always beautiful

from up here

but from down below

we are smudges in the sky

weeds in the water

and we block the forests

in the horizon with our reflection