oh, i am tired. an exhaustion born of grief
and born out in silence, solitude.
someone else's voice reads out instructions, now:
someone else directs the feet along the path.
but maybe loss of power does not mean
loss of self, maybe it indicates nothing at all—
a mere change in circumstances.
and that, as a whole, is an apt description
of my living life anyway, a constant flux
of comfort, or not, of what home and
the language of money might signify.
there is power enough in touching you now,
a potency in the heat and mire
that makes me willing to give up the solitude
and the pleasure of self-determinacy.