end of the line

both poets

and tightrope walkers

take it one line

at a time

*

new year

drinking old stuff

from the fridge

that may be from

the last time

i drank to not remember

the year before that

*

the clock has kissed

a new cycle and

she goes in for a second

celebration while i hope

for a third

knowing i need a fourth

to go around again

*

at the end of the line

she is untouchable

because she moves

no that’s not it

she glides

ya that’s it

she glides like a glider

in the wind

hoping to get away

from away

and i know it’s repetitive

i do i do

but that’s what she’s doing

all suspended where no one

can touch her

dressed up in a dress

that i’m looking up

which i know is repetitive

and i’m being repetitive again again

but its worth saying once more

because i saw some underwear

flashes of heart and anatomy

bones and births that could be

if she didn’t hang herself

and glide like a glider

in the wind

hoping to get away

from away

and from all that repeats

suffering’s suffering