You look as a sad violin, pulled pendulum
now swinging out of kept time, wide
eyes, you say, can’t see the light, long
nights of your body laid still without rest.

Boy with a bent nose, you hog the candle,
claim the flame as your flag, carve your nation
out the waters where your banner will surely
never wave. You tug your stomach

toward your heart. Why ask, when
you know no one will, when you are all
seeing, a wizened lone wolf who’s only howl
is for the corner, the pocket of two walls.

Growing is not change to you, but merely
a swelling, an enlarging of yourself. Search for
terra nirvana consumes, bending you into
portraits you paint over, cliffs you dive off.

Sit with your clock, knock down bottles
of rum, comb your soul over, run the treadmill,
cut and paste your beliefs, tweet your humorous
longings, forget how to hold a pen,

but crack your knuckles, for you are a man,
who peels and shaves off skin like turning
pages, cold as an iron arch in snow, cut
to heave all the sinking hopes you’ve thrown.

I’ve walked your corridor. I’ve held your
forehead. I ask you, unpinch your brow, take
a breath; your world’s not dead, your road
still goes. So stop lagging, and get.