But frantically applaud, elated and giddy from the
It's not that i lack courage, or i need his approval, it's just that i keep deveining;
whittling my arms and my skills, not trying to imagine what's ahead - my ruined and crippled fate.
Inertia is my only province.
I look at my hands and my feet, the only direction I can look, when gazing at the horizon is a tragic parody.
The skin and the bones are all I see, and they seem the next to go.
The laureate, he stands in his own shadow, not mine, darkened by all the standing,
and I wait while he gathers his effects.
Out here, it's an extraordinary ruse, playing passenger to the laureate and his enduring legacy;
he plays his game of cats and mice and wolves, and I have the wool to keep me warm and sightless.
I wait as he waits,
The sun was supposed to come up.
It was supposed to rise,
looking toward the coast
down the 30th parallel,
But it didn't.