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I’ve been fooled before, 
but I think I’m getting better. 

I think I’m breathing deeper
and I think I’m seeing further
and fewer situations lately
call for drastic measures.

This might not be related,
but I think I’m getting taller.
I am discovering the dusty
tops of cabinets. There
are bald spots I had not
considered on people
I thought I knew.

There is no way to prove this,
but I think I can leave my house
again, more often and for longer.
I am open to muddier traversals.

I will have to account
for this gap in my résumé.
I will have to reevaluate
the duties of my wardrobe. 

It will be hard to explain
how bad it used to get.
Even harder, I mean.
It’s always been hard.

I could be imagining things, 
but all around me, neon
lights are dimming.

Someone’s cleared the rubble.
The sirens, as it happened,
meant no harm at all.

Knock on wood and grain of salt,
but could it be that all this time
there was half a solution
to half the problem?

My madness is modest,
my pain is Advillable.

I am rolling down
the long sock of death.

And when I imagine
something beautiful,
something beautiful
contains me.

This poem was originally published in "Body Language," the Spring/Summer 2023, Vol 66, No. 2 Issue of Nimrod International Journal.

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