Mar 5, 2009
The Onus of Want
Solace sweeps the detritus under my bed into neat piles:
traces of et cetera from years of collections, a decade
of lonely crusades into failures and triumphs alike. The
more prevalent objects are sifted, true to form, like
missives found years after wars were waged.
Count them: three dustjackets, one used condom,
a tied Sunday shoe, balled up bank statements, a few
bank statements, and a clear plastic binder unused
since college containing one paper on Etheridge Knight,
the last time I really understood why I loved anything.