Today's poem is by Weston Cutter
I Want You
The smallest draft + the door slams, our lives
are the cause of so much wind,
the effects of. This morning breakfast
was the result of a winged bird
which can't fly, therefore sustenance
as turbulence of idea, design vs.
actual use. Examples abound: these hands
through centuries have learned
to make their way to ancestry toolshammer
vs. pen, key in one, doorknob in
the other. Maybe we're all only coasting
on fate's breath, maybe I've made
my way to this room because eons back
some rock fell on a Neanderthal
not related to me, which raises questions
of luck and kismet, questions re:
my failure to listen as my future wife
tells me of her day's drags,
and every time I don't listen I prove
the rock fell on the wrong neanderthal
and every time I don't listen invites
a turbulence of self, of who
I hoped I'd be by now. Yes, there were
plans, for whom are there not?
But then different tools and meals, therefore
the man I hoped to become
(age 16, stealing peaks at thumbed Cosmos,
discovering How To Please)
remains turbulent, a self: our lives are cups
we tip and sip from, set right, refill.
We are both the drinking and what's drunk,
together in the dark or miles apart,
and the wind outside so loud so loud so quiet.
Copyright © 2010 Weston Cutter All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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