Today I feel as weary as the world.
The one-and-two-and-three of life erodes
my will until I thrill at the soft curled
suggestion of stopping and dropping my load.
I feel like I am dragging the weight of
the world round and round in circles, not bound
anywhere, but tied fast by the fate of
attraction, levity ceased when the ground
hits each foot hard, and my heart starts before
my mud-blood pulse curves around the thin space
of my pulmonary orbit, brain sore,
weary of the world, and dragging back the pace.
I am a day, hour, minute, beat, from the loop,
world-weary still, but jumping through the hoop.
If you've any comments on this poem, Chris Beaton would be pleased to hear