outside the glove
these truncated days of December.
I look around and can’t tell
what matters, or what
in one year I’ll remember.
In the park, people
drag shadows like a history,
and feed on things
grown a hundred miles from center.
New York’s full of them, like
arms stretching out
from a splendor
but not ending anywhere.
Just stretching and stretching,
a vast loneliness monster.
Torture me for the meaning
of my life, tormentor,
even for twenty-nine years;
I can still give no answer.
Maybe there’s never been.
Then last night, my brother said
something I once believed,
and now I believe again.
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