Last night of many nights in a row
of this Golden Spike (in which
the mood is that of coal locomotives
on parallel tracks,
racing)
and now will come what always follows
(in which regret, which has been an egret floating
above a calm swamp,
becomes a buzzard eager to feed) –
What should I call this?
The beginning of this time
of Open Wound under the point of Golden Spike?
What should I call myself?
Am I just the imagination
of coal, of what was once
a Triassic jungle
now ready to smut up a chimney
as it burns?
There I am saying,
“I once grew and was green
and I now I burn and crumble,
black to red to black
again?”
No. It’s all good, even
the very bad.
Regrets?
I’ve had a few but then again,
manic depression is just another word
for what it’s like to have a buzzard poking
at your once high-velocity liver
as you recall how from the train
the cursed bird once looked
like a white, bright blessing.
