Perplexadon
Everything Led You Here Now Wanting Nothing
It’s not how you got here – it’s that you’re head-
in-your-hands-on-the-front-stoop here
confusing over lost miles
of decisions you’ve made. Look, it can be mid-afternoon
in some distant summer villa or sunrise
in someone’s back yard, an open flannel
hugging you poorly in late autumn. Wanting
everything led you here now wanting
nothing – of this house under the elms
flush with bird laughter and squirrels staring
into you: the want-change animal exhausted
from skittering between lives where the next one
always holds more promise
than the one you’re in – and here, too
it seems you’ve been written out
of your own story by characters as bloodthirsty
as you, their dreams more poignant and pointed
than yours – more real – like this gargantuan moment
of immense vacancy that lumbers over the house
in a single step – its thick tail sweeping gusts
through branches. Now notice the deep indentation
its footfall has made – if you’re lucky, the imprint
will eventually fill
with rain.
