Sometimes I train my disillusions like they're big
mad dogs. Preferably in high cornfields,
so much rustling that your disillusions seem
to walk straight out of your head, right in front of you
I call for them in all their painful detail
(Bring back! Come here!)
and let them:
Go! Sit! Lay down!
After which I lay myself between the the stems and
the broken off cobs, wondering which thoughts I
would put in place of the disappointments if
everything had gone my way: probably none.
How suffocating! Like erasing rooms from
the house you grew up in, including the
the ones you used to enter for
no apparent reason.
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