september stoicism

from sunrise until darkness
began to climb the sky
it was literal poetry in motion
this day, each thud of my shoe
against hardwood or black asphalt
stirred up truckloads of adjectives
like clouds of dust
the light in my eyes was a metaphor
of heaven or some love yet to come
out windows, and in corners
inhabited once by something
but now vacated; tenants
who must have felt ambition
yearning for something more
counting boards as i
walk the wooden floor
in a gallery walk way, loving my space
where degas is my roommate
and i smile sincerely back into
whatever comes my way
this day was poetry
and imagined brushstrokes that
were painted opaquely
by some mood
reckoning that
the time is not good
for what my wish might be
while staring into a piece of
art, or into a patron's gold grill grin
or even up through a skylight
it's just a dream
diffusing like a cloud
spreading apart and becoming so thin
that the shape it held
only moments ago
seems impossible now.
now, after all that's been said
and all things left undone,
now i still insist
it's your fault that i
write like this.