Perhaps this body is good enough; of course,
it could be better. It needs to withstand
the pressure of this place, this vice of
cinder and fluorescent and constant sound.
Can it now face the intensity of hundreds
forever always suckling at the teet, the
violence of a state of constant stupidity,
of verbose and fortified turrets of jargon
surrounding a fortress of turgid specialization?
What will I have to become to exist in this
formaldehyde? What must my body learn to be?
Of course it could be a professional body.
I jog it in circles, feed it probiotics, cry often
and dream of limbs strong like tree roots. But
this place rips out trees more viciously than God,
and I know I must become something other
than life. Metal. Stone. I could make my body
like a machine; I could die and keep on going.
Maybe I can find a way to live in this desert,
to go thirsty and still grow; to be ripped
apart continuously, only to root again
and again and again. Like
purslane in the sliver
road, I could
hedge my jaded