Something tells me
I’m supposed to be shocked:
taking stock of what I’ve given up,
in how I’ve given in,
how I’ve driven myself off
the dusty road into an even dustier ravine.
Something tells me it’s obscene,
but this seems an understatement.
I’ve an engagement
with the limpid passions
passing like scribbles overhead,
those dribbles of colored clouds
that blend in-and-out of one another.
Another spectacle smothered
by the open palm