what road


by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer

I ought to —

what?

You know

I can't

but what is it I can't?

awakening

from sleep

I look about me

at the “land”

and think

and count the

nothings

on my list of things to do

one

one

one

one . . . oh, please,

brain, work

the bog I'm walking through

I stand

unsteady

feet unsure

but sure I'm going to fall

I'll spill the other way

if

I just lean against a wall

and so I sit

try not to get up

so I won't collapse

the one thing that I need

now

sleep

eludes me still

perhaps

if I collect —

but how would I

without going outdoors —

supplies

I numerated last night

what were they?

the cores

of my compartmentalized

now nebulous

yet solid needs

(not being able to remember

is like planting seeds

and looking back

at that sown field

and wondering

if bent

over the furrowed area

just what I dropped there)

sent

by You

to care for me

so I might have to figure less

and then not be confronted

by this empty-minded mess

is this

then

what senility

when it begins

is like

awakening in heavy traffic

seated on a bike

and having no idea

how I got there

or where I am

or where I'm going

staring

much less able than a lamb

I've tended

souls

who could do nothing

but lie still

eyes wide

and comprehending nothing

and aware that I can't hide

from what I am

whoever that is

Lover

be with me

and while this fog

perverts my purpose

Your face

I'll still see

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