The Pleasure of Things

I have denied myself to feel

the pleasure of it, the pain

to be but a heart, and beat

I have seen a great deal

as the observer, a mountain, standing still 

amongst the effervescent valley

things grow and die here you know

and as this rocky spectator

I envy those things, beings they’re called

they dance they laugh they participate

I’ve been a bit busy

writing til my hands have arthritis

chasing sunsets and sunrises

climbing trees to watch a robin give birth

and it’s all wonderful and real

I want to be all these things

mother robin, my arthritis, the sun

I should put this pen down first

go outside, no thinking, just breathing

enter a bar fairly late, drink heavily

dance dance dance 

til there’s no such thing as walking

find a stranger, ask for danger

wait for rejection, the sting

confess my love out loud, the longing

dance dance dance some more

wake up the next day somewhere else

something else entirely

I owe myself to feel

the pleasure of things, their pain

to be but a heart, and beat