It's not as if everyone's not in this life.
It's as if there sits a sky below the world.
Only two squares left on the tired year's grid,
two days until toasts to the negligible.
A portable restroom tumbling down a road—
and on YouTube of all the glowing so-called
places I suddenly find myself at night
when I should be reading or sleeping or dead—
is no tumbleweed, though it's just as useful
as any clicked-on and laughed-into-shape thing.
Too late to be what I might've been? I'll say.
Everyone's his or her own juvenilia
and everything's evidence—to fault oneself
for having been someone else is fruitless pain.
We can't help the fiction that we're in each day.
We're in each day in the same way we're in flames.
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