A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
One more morning I get out of bed. Yes, alive
and I probably shouldn’t be. My heart
has taken a beating. My real heart. No one
can feel these things and live long. And yet
I seem to have. Five years past my allotted
threescore and ten and will probably make it
a while longer. Let me say that love will not
let me alone. If it has let you alone, go back
and find it where you hid it under a scrim
of scar-tissue. It’s what makes it all worth it
even if we fuck it up, and fuck it up again.
Practicing as if to become the best possible
compost for another life, somewhere.
Leaving traces of myself by the road like
bread crumbs and may you find your way
back. Some bread the birds will not touch.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson