long view of time

It’s the morning of thirty five

and I’m reading Sexton’s poems.

I know her kind, I have been

her kind. To use her words.

The whirlwind of common

impressions drags me in. My hands

are spread signaling surrender.

I’m still. Here, I’m still

changing, though almost every

morning I brew twenty grams

of coffee and on most Saturdays

I go to the market. I’ve heard

stories, tales, legends

full of everything. Everything,

be it suffering or transcendence.

It’s time to take a long view

of time.