On These Days

I do not pretend to know what I mean.
I am not precise or clear like a knife,
with a peach.

I stood in a glass box room,
told to stare into infinity,
and thought, is this what they mean?

My thoughts come out in single lines,
singularities,
an inability,
tied together only by the page.

On good days I make grocery lists
of what I gain, and wash berries with vinegar, and drink tea.
On the rest of the days I stare blankly out the window
and let the water grow cold and the lemons rot on the counter.

What I would like,
is to hold onto the tide
and say things like soothsayer,
and honeysuckle,
and let’s go inside.

Maybe I will go for a drive on my own up the coast.
It has been so long since I have done anything on my own,
and it will be long again.

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image by Ivan Troyanovsky