Dusk drips from frozen sky
to drowsy earth.
Whose wasteland is this?
As a matter of fact, this matters
somewhat, but very little.
I keep my hands in my pockets
along with seven years of weariness
and the strange warmth
to which it adheres.
No one steers me wrong
without consent. As if my dented mind
had capacity left to conceive
of something like agency.
I don’t believe in discord
or disillusionment anymore
or in anything which could replace them.
Though the passion within me
is steadily diminishing,
my limbs haven’t stopped twitching,
as December grins on
and makes gray mud
of these poems.

-r. miller

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