Ok, fine, at 35, I will rise from this lawn chair
and kiss the sidewalk almost laughing.
For now, but knowing not forever,

I will love and lean into this
powerlessness, God, be proud
of my being leashed to these urges,

like flying each of twenty crows
through two tornadoes with a bird tied
to each finger and toe. I will go on trying

to swallow all the grocery stores
because no morning feelings,
tomorrow, will forgive my mouth

its frivolousness today, so I shall regret
these schnapps-y lips less and less. Dark
manholes around my eyes, for five more years,

I will pour myself, again, too deep into whatever
it was I thought I had wanted. I will love this
gummed cement of me with a little more with tongue.

– Ephraim Sommers