The Silo

You emerge from this blackness,
a silo full and heavy with feed,
with thoughts like shucked
corn heads
it begins.

It comes like friends through the door
talking.

You hear them and you think of dread. Or
like grocery shopping, unloading the cart
and putting it all in plastic bags.
$21.89 for gas
or even a funeral;

I do not want to mourn the dead,
yours or mine.

I do not want to commiserate with friends,
mine or anyone’s.

I do not want to plan meals, even my next.
Or call the ambulance
when you have hurt yourself
badly.

I do not want still daisies on my birthday, or a long song describing my life.
The love of fire, blasting in the incinerator is far gone,
too hot to understand,
whiskey and friends, mother, brothers,
blue sighs of dogs: they never stop finding me.

Leave me out of it, leave me be
and I’m going to
SEE SOMETHING.
The dementia of an old woman in a chair.
Tumors. Olive pits. Too much
fiber and coffee which
gives you the shits
first thing in the morning.
That’s all.

Call it done, don’t talk. Find the
silo and sleep.