I've found I prefer to be hungry.
How telling is that?
How sick to rather be empty.
How selfish to hoard that insight.
Two windows facing one another
reflection and reality folded
clean as the branch late December
tapping on one, showing the other,
sharing neither.
I've found it becomes agreeable
to only survive; though it makes
for an odd life to examine,
picked apart, stapled together
like some fifth year med. student might slide
that weeks course onto the table,
into the freezer, some hope
that adaptability won't prove this life's
most striking feature.
I find it most difficult to be both
masochistic, insightful,
though what better evidence to survival?
Perhaps that of children born out of wedlock,
out of doors, out of a drunk night,
out of a chance for anything
but, and nothing short of,
unadulterated survival.