Let me complain.
The woman I thought wise wasn’t.
So what’s new?
That answer is writ on my palm,
a stupefaction of faint paths marking
my future in remembrance of my past.
I am four and fierce in a puddle of mud.
An inaugural plunge?
Newly discovering I am stuck?
Not the last time, little plump.
The schema of life insists
we feel our forward motion.
Even you who float through your days.
O sleepwalkers, awake.
You are more hungry than you know.