Fifty Poem

My ordered states are falling from me
scattered out into a slow drift from what might have been
and what once reflected back

I am more empty spaces and unfinished things
between the minutes
and days that give in far too soon to shadow

I linger between irony and detachment
paddling in the dark, convoluted air of a long pause
catching only my breath

And somehow
I’ve become more scent than succulence
Or is it more gesture than squawk?

Sitting on my bed
alone
far too gone to begin a prayer
and much too long out of love for poetry.