Fog like dots of dull incessant pain
sharpen in the night, like stars,
like lights framing those little windows that
must surely mean something
mean people around a table twisting
their guts in laughter.
But for now it doesn’t matter what it means.
What I felt on that cold roof with the
menace of gravel underfoot meant something.
It surely meant finding meaning in everyday
actions becoming a chore.
The task of being itself becoming a chore
so arm yourself with everything worthwhile
and liberating. arm yourself
an icepick through sleets of mundane
with dew-drenched blades of thought
that tug you along long nights;
and memories of the future
-if some such thing ever existed-
then you must must see them through.
