The Arc of My Confusion

The arc of my confusion
and fear are near geometry

while my mouth dries,
dessication plods onto the scene

like an animal
injured and lost,

I stumble senile
across the desert mind

Waiting for wisdom
to save the day from the winds

of so much sadness
and the recognition

that robins flying are not to be scattered
like leaves blown free

from cracked and broken branches
mistaken for signs
of spring.