#62
Cleaning My Room
I find it hard to clean my room;
instead, it is much easier to let
seas of old things drown my ankles
and memories settle like dust.
And purging my life of that refuse
is more a matter of working hard
to begin a new life.
Yet each birth is surrounded in blood,
and the cost of the past sometimes seems
too dear.
As old papers get wrinkled and thrown away,
I know I'm only just trying to fool myself.
Each time I say this time I'll put my foot forward,
my head looking to a horizon far away
where I imagine the clouds glitter like silver;
but every page in my life will end up crinkling
and broken under my feet as I look for
a clean pair of pants.
Yet, it seems ritual -- like the ancients sacrificing virgins --
to try to find the sensuality in the blood spilled
over a new life and the hope of future.
And I continue to fight myself to clean.