in backsliding     a point comes     when you turn around

to feel the bottom rushing up at you     to be overwhelmed

to be smirched     to lick something gushing     tender

with mudpuddle sounds   |   to some I am an orca     far away

then feasting     one harbor morning   |   it’s not special

to others     that I am dancing     but to me it is   |   and what

is the price     of refusing to ask oneself     am I somehow

for others     a free source of tedious order   |   effort withheld

as if each quarter     were lucky     and every rag     the relic

of a saintly gallibaya     maybe I won’t spend     any of these

ducats     maybe they’ll burn with me     after all     how many

objects     can a pile accumulate     while remaining neutral  |

is there a moment when the gap     between the monstrousness

you feel     and the monstrousness that people acquit you of

offers a way out     is that what a moment of stillness is   | 

our ceasefire is no longer fit for our firefight   |   save me

a seat by your side     or I’ll wander off   |  if unwanted

stoppages     spin within you     that’s what sputtering means  

really though     come find me     I think I made a mistake