I still love poetry most
but it has evened out,
turned into breathing.
I like breathing,
but I don't think about it.
Like sport or a woman,
poetry is just there,
coming out of me like breath,
but met with a new indifference.
Taking it—and life—
for granted,
but trying not to—
whatever that means—
while still granting
anxiety most of my time.
Proud of poetry
like breathing because
without it I would die,
ceasing to exist
as I have existed
if I were to ever stop.
It's inevitable though,
to get comfortable
for something that comes easy,
like graying pines
and aging physically;
it only hurts when you notice
you don't give a shit.
Burp!