There’s nothing romantic or liberating about it—
this cowering in a sleeping bag,
watching the twinkling menace
collapse the screen tent
of who I think I am.
It is not some primordial exercise of freedom.
A landlord still hovers.
The rent is still exorbitant.
In only one way
is it easier out here:
I stop my pining
for a dishonest night’s sleep—
a break from the void’s incessant grooming.
Insignificance, I decide,
will never stop dragging
it’s pestering comb
across my scalp.
The best I can hope for?
An achy dawn,
motivation to admit
what coyotes can’t articulate
and Buddhas wildly howl:
It takes a Gortex kind of silence
to withstand
this roofless world.
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