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I am attuned to the distinct aroma of
disillusionment—
an abrupt torpor, a suspension between
splintering glass and
terminal velocity, on replay.

I wonder if mice
question their existence
twitching aphorisms with their whiskers
the way a prisoner would
chalk up his cell with tally marks.

The scent of dampened concrete
was redolent of hopscotch days, and
waiting for the cats and dogs and all their friends
to come raining down, but
they never did.

Physiology textbooks become instruction manuals
on how to know yourself, except

If we did, the Greeks wouldn’t have asked.
and we’re supposed to differentiate, anyhow
divvy up the lines, split up and down
decree a rulebook for moral conscience
to shed guilt on survival.

The tallest man on earth
strides shorter than his time.

In the end, Sisyphus knows only his rock.

It’s striking, the way I forget
familiarity, ‘till its letters
spell a name that’s supposed to mean “me”, but
correlation doesn’t imply causation.