I drink
while I write
in a big empty room
called America.
And the TV's on.

I stumble
by myself
past monuments and brick yards;
the children, lest they be forgotten,
carve their stories,
on the pavement
into the land
with chalk.

I mourn
in my desperation
for truth, which is everywhere,
or beauty, that I find between them all,
and language, such is---

I distract
myself from myself
you from your world
reason from matter
a dead-weighted pen from the
fire inside.

Without reflection
I am movement.
In hindsight,