Where was peace?
It didn’t come last night.
I turned and stretched
and fell off boulders.
No conclusive dream,
no wound,
that by itself could heal.
Just the drifting of a boat,
without rudder,
insomnia,
a holiday retreat in hell,
with no restrictions on class
or belief.
I was denied a good night’s rest,
as if a tax were being paid,
a penitence for mortality,
for the vulnerability of age,
for being alive,
for having no place to go.
The book The House of the World has been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and is now available on Amazon.