samsara

some days, the bear
wins and I pass
through another
turn of the wheel
an animal, an eye
growling from
a cave. I'll spare you
the plea for sympathy
or romance. 
we are all born 
fools but how we
die is a choice. 
for myself, I think
I will stretch out 
long on the grass
under the sun
like a broken 
automobile. 
or droop into
the water, disappear
like a fish. sometimes
it's better not to
return, to keep 
going out until
the ship of the heart
become the fog.
​