headfirst

Gollyjeebers what a pretty fucking day.
Outside, all the fun.
The sun, the lake is making blue,
blue that's as wide and clean
as a white-toothed grin.
In here, in the book cave, all the interminable
think-time proceedeth forth
like a monotonously beated line
--one-two, one-two--
all the introspection that tends to drive poets
of all schools, eras, and times
headfirst through the wall.
It's too sunny to think about
dying but sometimes I wonder
how to think about
anything else.
Go outside.