Pursuit of the New

A Poem

2 min readApr 9, 2024

I still shave my legs and contemplate
nail polish, pierce my tongue, dream
of sports tattoos. Not common sports,

but the weird ones: polo, bike racing, candlepin
bowling. And now I fashion the next set of steps
out of pine and plaid carpets and wonder

where they ask I climb. It is enough
to open my eyelids and see the fire burning,
the forests on the horizon, spitting orange

into stars like Krakatoa. I reach deep
into my bag, and pull out hair, lipstick,
mint wrappers, car wash receipts.

I can’t look myself in the eye anymore.
The flames — they are just too bright for tired
irises. I stand here, in shallow water,

watch herring swirl between my hairy legs,
and wonder what happened to 20 years.
What happened to the fresh scent of blank

pages? Why do I linger on the tallest tree,
the wettest stone, the blackest pen
scribing a list of worthless regrets? All of this

is some form of weather noise. I am the rain
that sounds differently on dead leaves. I am
a spider that hangs unique on wet thread.

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