On mornings like this one

I’m worried about the fact

that I don’t seem to be worried

about anything.

“It’s too early to worry,”

I tell myself, while pouring

another cup of French Roast.

I’m like a sailboat of ease

floating into a sunset

underneath white linen clouds

I can’t salt or pepper with adjectives

without sinking myself

behind a 5 O’clock nap

and snapping off another

cable of sleep

I’d once used to rig my “complex

as hell” anxiety out of deep

fathoms of paradox and contrary,

but now can only seem to

watch slowly sink

and vanish,

the way a solitary child who drops

a stone into a deep well

feeling his wish to be visited

by a translucent, mother-like

spirit born from dark caverns

of loss,

intuitively realizes that,

just as he loses himself for good,

he’ll begin to wait for himself to come

back behind his actual wish

to know and be loved by

everything he already both is,

and isn’t,

but just has to figure out a way

to rise up out of the abyss

of poor self-esteem and believe

he’s good enough to talk to first.