It’s too late now, I’m almost broke. What you suggest,
my mouth repels. Fatigue saddles my response,
I cannot assent, nor ascend the long climb backwards.

Last night I dreamt I was buried in rubles, blanketed
breathless beneath unmarked coins. Entropy describes
a closed system, one that reaches a core temperature

and stays put. My life has been a mistake. There is no use now
in groping for an anchor, vying for specialness I don’t possess,
praying for an unmarried moment of naked recognition.

We have no idea what we are doing. But why let fear join us?
We are doing, isn’t that enough? A paltry life, a moment of joy
here and there. I apologize for being mortal. There is so little

left to lose.  I find more pleasure in pictures than in people,
subway signage, kiosks with magazines and soda pop. You
don’t want to hear this, I don’t even want to say it.

I send you away for your own good. But no, that is
so pompous. I send you away only for my own.
My own what? My own how?