Staring at a Doorknob

Retribution for sins created
and a guilty minute for this constant
meal,
I eat as much this time commited
to purging companions in hopes to
heal.

Beginning now some place where cities stop colliding.
We've all been there, to take in air that never belonged to
our stooped lungs. But enough echoes in this empty ionic
cavern, I'll shout to stalag-somethings and pay myself for
admission.

What are the venues for
and the long, languid streets that lead
to this place or that,
then home,
shoveling for money to make it back,
again, it's always 'again'- a gain to be made again and again.
No choice but to lean into a joke understood and look at the
ship-moving sky like it's a metaphysical breakthrough.
We are no longer young and amused at these things grapled
by science or the felts laughed away by professional art.
Not this year or the next.
Like this land, our chests are stretched hard for ever.