How long I’ve sought to understand 
 what can only be experienced, 
 or to experience what can only be 
 constructed in the mind: 
 life and perfection, respectively. 

A year spent in isolation, working alone 
 in a giant building, 
 coming home to the clamor and chaos 
 of small children: 
 lather, rinse, repeat. 

Sore, aching, fat, 
 I wake to energy and optimism, 
 and go to sleep with resignation 
 or despair, 
 popping my diversions as though 
 they were pills, 
 looking for a brief shot of oblivion. 

Trying to love through 
 this castle of selfishness I dwell within; 
 trying to feel loved 
 lying on the bed of nails
 that is self-awareness —
 year fifty-nine has had far too much truth
 to have quite enough happiness.

And yet breathing:
 the inhalation of hope,
 the exhalation of resolve;
 the inhalation of stillness,
 the exhalation of calm;
 the breathing in of grief, and
 the breathing out of sorrow —

These are the years,
 a year, another year,
 the undefinable significance 
 of a life, all our lives, 
 these beehives we call minds,
 these oceans we call hearts