we ask ourselves
why we do the same thing
over and over
and we ask ourselves
why we are addicted
in these ways
these mysterious substances, the forms
that are less mysterious
every time we have them
for one or two days
or, for about a week
and then, gathering that glow
we see them glowing
on sidewalks
as they were
we see them glowing in the windows
while we window shop
they could be that women
who wraps herself up
with the long scarves,
who wraps herself up
like a sacred package
or they could be those bottles
lined up in the neat files
of the liquor store
with colors burning
ready to catch our spirits…
and then, it happens, like it did
the last time, we give in…
and it’s the inevitable walk of disgust
as we walk around as a guilty wilted thing
as we walk around like a droopy flower, a weed
and there is no escaping
what we are
when what we are
is what we did
and what we did
lives on inside us
as a sickness
but then, storm fronts drift in
and we see them
as unexpectedly as the last time
as they come unannounced
from somewhere over the mountains
the sky changes, churning over itself, arms coiling,
dark swirls swirling, with shades of gray on gray and the trees
nodding on and on in the peripheries
and on and on they nod as the wind sweeps
across the hours and the valley,
sweeping up everything superfluous
the memories of the lives we led
the guilt of doing what we shouldn’t have
in the corners of those long evenings
when we lost ourselves
out the back entrances
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