I Am 32, and I’m Not Living in New York

I consider life as a fill-in-the-blanks sonnet.

A cloud moves across the sun: such drama:

I think that would be easy, but it isn’’t,

mind like a horizon of travel.

It requires a lot of thought and many hours,

haiku-like, shift-of-perception revisions

like an antihistamine,

the eyes of consecutive years to pull off walks,

lives in gold-infused coffee shops

in December, people drifting around

in cages of falling snow.

Some days my whole

collection of light hours are wine-shot &

from one limbo to another.

The volume that contains

my work at the moment

is the whole freaking world.