tripping along familiar
grooves worn too smooth
from use
or tumbling down another
round from dusk to dawn
again
a slick impulse of habit
so drunk on boredom
it seems
as if everything here
you’ve been forced to see
depends
on some degree of certainty
as the only possible
relief
and there for the taking
sealed with a kiss
perhaps
or tricked by a web of lies —
until it dies.
