Today intention carries out what
it intends: swarms of semi-sentience
take a singular collective form: to indicate
that everything must have a shape,
suggest a symmetry, including me –
despite the gaping lack of meaning
February, coming back, appears
again to promise on its eve. I’m sitting,
aging: shocked at being slim – skinnier
than I have been in years – in thermal top
and overlying purple t-shirt, black
Joe Boxer underwear and white irregular
Fourteenth Street socks: when – out
of my unprepossessing actual
and metaphoric sleeve – arrives another
couple of regenerating presences,
as pleased, apparently, as they can be
that they are here. I find them queer,
but so am I. I am particularly left
bewildered by the yellow onion guy.
.
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