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Better

I’ve been fooled before, 
but I think I’m getting better. 

​

I think I’m breathing deeper
and I think I’m seeing further
and fewer situations lately
call for drastic measures.

​

This might not be related,
but I think I’m getting taller.
I am discovering the dusty
tops of cabinets. There
are bald spots I had not
considered on people
I thought I knew.

​

There is no way to prove this,
but I think I can leave my house
again, more often and for longer.
I am open to muddier traversals.

​

I will have to account
for this gap in my résumé.
I will have to reevaluate
the duties of my wardrobe. 

​

It will be hard to explain
how bad it used to get.
Even harder, I mean.
It’s always been hard.

​

I could be imagining things, 
but all around me, neon
lights are dimming.

​

Someone’s cleared the rubble.
The sirens, as it happened,
meant no harm at all.

​

Knock on wood and grain of salt,
but could it be that all this time
there was half a solution
to half the problem?

​

My madness is modest,
my pain is Advillable.

​

I am rolling down
the long sock of death.

​

And when I imagine
something beautiful,
something beautiful
contains me.
 

This poem was originally published in "Body Language," the Spring/Summer 2023, Vol 66, No. 2 Issue of Nimrod International Journal.

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