Towards what, is this march
inexorable? The relentless
clamor of the days’ chatter
away, and I have tenancy in the mundane
—folding the laundry while listening
to social commentary by thought
leaders on the radio—a juxtaposition.
I’m afraid, comma. Or, I’m afraid, semi-colon.
Regardless, this shallow excavation of
my thoughts, really so many thoughts,
limping into words with what latent
meaning. I want to say [ I want to say ]
I try. It’s a little fuzzy to sort what
is enough, and if there can be enough,
despite all current missives: you are
enough. With whom and why and how
do I ally?
Such innocent little wars we
fight, amid real questions and, verily,
demands, well-earned. There’s a certain
brand of blind belonging, practiced primarily
by the youngest among us. May we, then,
regress with impulsion.
caroline ridgway 