I’ve been spurred, but don’t fetishize

self-destruction—flinging mangoes, drowning in gin,

idolizing youth. I no longer ride on roofs of buses

daydreaming of toil and recrimination,

nor gnaw on crumbs, counting the curse

of minor success. I’m immune, although I still hide

in shadows, gawk at diadems, daphne,

scarred by monotony, the decadence of a strange,

unremembered age. Born anew, tempered by flame,

I shelter from Kentucky sun, diagramming clouds,

the approach of a gray horizon—bifurcated,

shorn, yet impervious to despair. Wild horses

thunder in the distance, drawing dust, premonition,

while I scatter seed, sing of paradise: this rush of supernumerary bliss.