Today you aren’t sure what catchesor what liberates: to tell the truth, or try –
sometimes it is as if you’re crammed
inside a carny booth next to a turbaned
mystical automaton who for a coin or two
will offer random fortunes one of which
might be your jackpot – and so you slip it
pocket change, until it seems strange
not to stop. At other times you’re like
a figure lost in gold baroque but rather
loving what your curves and all the curves
surrounding you evoke, yearning
for the riches they appear to be about
to drop, until it seems strange not to stop.
Mostly you’re at sea, exulting in ennui.