I’m reading this book, you see,
That in turn seems to be doing its part,
In the writing of me.
The weevil has burrowed deep,
And now comes and goes,
As he sees fit,
Hollowed out my memories for tunnel space.
He whispers for miles in my ears,
Lifts my legs to the pulse of the words.
And it’s all moving too fast for me to be
Able to grab ahold of all these cars,
These trains of thought
That run too close,
Or far enough to have to run
Just to catch,
A train?
When did the horse whip the carriage?
The horses don’t get to call the shots,
Not while we have any say in it.
We’ll sort out the ethics of the damn thing
After the damn beast carries us there.
I mean,
What else can we name a man,
Except that sliver of pride,
That make us do
The things we regret.

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