JORDAN WILLIAMSON

Anthology

The days are so alike this time of year,
concerned with love but not wedded to the idea.
Whatever happens it’s worth getting out of bed.
 
Sunlight spills through blinds,
a few short breaths in the driveway, 
asphalt steaming in post-rain exasperation.
 
A sign on the door says, welcome to the crises center.
All are safe here. No earthly considerations,
just the hum of the air conditioning.
 
The spare walls pass no judgement,
transmit a frequency more conducive to being. 
Maybe it was rash, maybe, get some sleep. 

An eager note written in a child’s hand.
The entire production moving willfully along.
This is not so bad, even worth attempting 

to draw in by the armful. If one day you arrive
at some unknown, bleak and dirty shore,
where the measure of things is obscured by an unshaven,
 
ill-advised version of yourself, where the pejorative breeze
turns toward self-loathing, recall this now.
Walk in slow, well-timed steps, back to me.