Fixated

A Poem

For centuries the image haunted me, counting me like driftwood become thousands of pieces after the fire Now up on the soapbox screaming at the world to stop kicking up quite so much dust to stop the obscuring of this replica of life There is this ideal meditation that we slip through, that charges the purposes we put up like broken hands in a boxing ring All the cups that we’ve knocked off the counter accidentally lining our sick room, shards for revenge and then the silent porcelain witnesses begin their own clamour for redemption You must be able to put them back together While I lie in the closing sunshine just a little bit longer I confess my lack of wisdom and sift through the remains of what I thought I was after

J.D. Harms 2020