What you lack in true passion you make up for
with dwarfish, generic desire, as if that’s ok.
Though you – in a version, as a symbol
and exemplary of common history –
might drill brain. Might leave memory
to its cyclical, demented aviation:
will not fly, refuses to carry.
If exhilaration recedes, if forgiveness is
breakfast to the willful party's hollow heart,
maybe age is aborigine to wonder.
I wonder how it feels to you – moving about
in your little diorama, pleased in a way
and forgetful of corrosive need, regrettable acts –
never quite sure which weighs more,
anger or fear, or which accounts for the sparkle.
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